


My Valiant Beloved

by destielpasta



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: (mentioned briefly) - Freeform, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Assassination Attempt(s), Bodyguard, Canon-Typical Violence, Chivalry, Danger, Duty, Explicit Sexual Content, Fillory (The Magicians), Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Intrigue, M/M, Margo Hanson/Alice Quinn (background), Mutual Pining, Past Quentin Coldwater/Alice Quinn, Pining, Prince Quentin, Protectiveness, Romance, Sacrifice, Swordfighting, Swordsman Eliot, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:35:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 41,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23189359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/destielpasta/pseuds/destielpasta
Summary: Quentin Coldwater, the Crown Prince of an ancient Fillory, is about to embark on the most dangerous month of his life. But he is not alone.This is story of daring deeds, sword fights, and true love conquering all - even the doubts inside our hearts.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 111
Kudos: 297





	1. A Knife in his Hand

**Author's Note:**

> New story for our brave new world! I'm so excited to share this with you, and hope that you all enjoy this take on what I'm calling "ancient fillory." I'm playing with canon a bit-- Quentin is the crown prince of Fillory in a time before the children of earth ruled. 
> 
> This will probably be about five or six chapters, and most of it is already finished. I tacked on a warning for violence, but it's not anything worse than canon. 
> 
> A special thanks to mtothedestiel, my self-titled "very involved beta" and an actual expert on all things medieval. Hopefully you will see how her knowledge of real life medieval Europe enriches this "medieval" Fillory. 
> 
> Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy!

“Any moment now, Your Highness.”

Quentin nodded his understanding to the guard, a short, stocky man named Faulk. Having witnessed Quentin’s quirky nerves since he was a boy, he was one of the few who took pity in these situations. 

Quentin stared at the heavy door in front of him, trying to distract himself by counting every single fiber of wood grain. The slabs of oak were intricately carved, illustrating the grand achievements of his forefathers. At his eye level, the stylized figure of his paternal grandfather knelt in an illustration of the very ceremony Quentin was about to partake in. 

All Quentin could wish for in the moment was a chisel and hammer.

“In any case, this will be a quiet day, sir,” Faulk continued conversationally. “We made a full sweep of the castle, per the lord’s orders, and none were found that would try to mar such a sacred tradition.”

The lord. It sounded so odd and reluctant coming from Faulk’s mouth. In less solemn circumstances Quentin would have laughed, imagining what Eliot would say to that. His friend always had a clever quip in the face of the more traditional guard’s attitudes.

“And it’s been inspected to my satisfaction.”

Quentin looked up, and as if he had conjured him with his thoughts, Eliot stood beside him. 

“You’re supposed to already be waiting inside!” Quentin hissed. 

Eliot smirked. “I’ll sneak in the side door. I had to oversee the guards personally, on today of all days. Surely you wouldn’t deny me my duty to protect you, your highness?”

Quentin shook his head, wringing his hands. How could Eliot be in such fine spirits when Quentin felt that he was coming out of his skin?

“Hey, Q.” Eliot brushed some imagined lint from the navy blue velvet of his embroidered mantle, but Quentin knew it was simply a pretense to offer him a comforting touch, as did his guard. Faulk bowed his head and turned his eyes forward like any good soldier should. Quentin could have told the guard that there was nothing untoward about the warm weight of Eliot’s hand on his shoulder, but that would only be at cross purposes with Quentin’s imagination. 

“This is only a ceremony,” Eliot continued,“And I shall be there with you, for every moment.” 

Quentin’s heart beat hard, as it always did when Eliot granted him the rich devotion of his full gaze. It was a blessed distraction from the trial that awaited him, if only for a moment. 

“I know,” Quentin said. “Thank you.” 

Eliot nodded. “I’ll see you inside?” 

“Yes.”

With a final squeeze to his shoulder Eliot left him, slipping around him to enter the side door of the throne room from another corridor. 

Alone now but for Faulk, Quentin exhaled shakily and adjusted the silver crown on his head. It had grown a bit tight over his brow, which he supposed was the point. The enchantments that made it shrink were directly related to the death of the High King one month ago today. It was more suited to a child now, the future heir to the throne. For better or for worse, in only a few minutes that would no longer be Quentin’s title to bear.

He fiddled with it once more, his fingertips fumbling and damp with sweat. Nerves. That wouldn’t do. Dropping his hands, he squared his shoulders, staring ahead until he heard the high, clear voice of the herald.

“His Highness, the Crown Prince, Quentin Coldwater.”

The doors opened. Quentin exhaled, and began to walk. 

The throne room was crowded, but dimly lit. Only candles kept close to the walls, and what light leaked through the densely colored stained glass windows behind the royal dais. Quentin barely recognized the room he had played in as a child, where his father had conducted business and kindly led the kingdom. King Theodore had kept it brightly lit and cheery, with the hanging lanterns throwing light into every corner, banishing every shadow. 

But that was no more. Fillory was a kingdom in mourning, and mourning was all about twilight aesthetics. 

Quentin felt the possibility of a smile beneath his stony expression. It was something Eliot would have said. 

He took his time walking up the aisle, keeping his eyes forward as rows of gentry and nobles clad in muted tones of black, violet and navy bowed at the waist when he passed by, keeping their eyes averted to the floor. Today would be the final day of their mourning attire. Making every effort to look dignified and regal, Quentin directed his gaze at the raised dais and empty throne that sat upon it. Lord Fogg awaited him beside his father’s throne, unsmiling as ever and draped in a blue ceremonial robe that matched the color of Quentin’s mantle. The retiring sorcerer hadn’t made the preparations for this day easy, and Quentin’s new boots were tight around his feet, making the possibility of taking a very _unroyal_ tumble in front of his vassals a real possibility. 

Quentin reached the dais unscathed, and the crowd straightened, lowering themselves to their seats. It would be the last time they would do so without Quentin’s permission. 

Only one man still stood, a tall and slim figure dressed in all black with a simple sword at his waist. Quentin glanced at him, straining his eyes with the effort of not turning his head. Eliot always knew how to paint a good picture for the courtiers, looking like the very picture of gentility even though he had just arrived, and tardily. _He_ looked like the one who should be standing in Quentin’s place, a regal air emanating from his very being. 

Eliot’s gaze flicked toward him, and he winked before sobering again. Quentin felt light. 

Safe. 

He took a deep breath and looked to Lord Fogg, who seemed to be running out of patience with the mandated one minute of silence before the ceremony was to begin. 

“Quentin Makepeace Coldwater,” He said as soon as the time was up, his voice sounding clearly through the vaulted chamber. It wasn’t every day that Quentin heard his true name spoken outright. He sometimes forgot about it. “You have come here as the Crown Prince of Fillory to petition for your right to be King. Do you deny this?”

Quentin swallowed. His voice needed to ring true. 

“I do not.” 

Fogg didn’t react to this. Quentin wondered just how much blackberry wine he had indulged in pre-ceremony. 

“You have one month to prove your worth to the people of Fillory. If you succeed, you will be king by the melting of the frost. Do you accept these terms?”

Quentin nodded once. “I do.”

“And who will you call to bear witness to this moment for the people of Fillory?”

Quentin glanced to the side, wetting his lips. “I will have Eliot Waugh, Lord of the Mosaic Woods. He shall witness this moment on behalf of the people.”

“Do you give a reason for this decision?”

“I give no reason.” The words were old, rehearsed and memorized from a dusty old tome that contained all the rites for turning Princes of Fillory into Kings of Fillory. To Quentin they sounded foolish and arrogant but… it wasn’t his choice. 

He paused, making sure there wasn’t an article out of place. “I give no reason because I am the reason. I am the future king, and my word is bond.”

Eliot smiled and came to stand next to Quentin, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword.

Fogg took the bronze crown in his hands. It had been sitting on the empty throne, looking like an old piece of twisted tin. It was a stand-in, a paste really, until Quentin received the golden crown of the true king. 

He bowed his head enough for Fogg to take the silver prince’s crown from him and replace it with the bronze one. It was likely little different, but the moment the new crown touched his head Quentin felt a heavy weight settle on his shoulders. Beside him, Eliot’s presence was a warm reassurance. This burden would not be his to bear alone.

“With this crown you begin your trial, Quentin Coldwater, _bronze_ prince of Fillory.”

And so began the most dangerous month of Quentin’s life. 

~

“And then he said, ‘and now begins your trial, Quentin Coldwater,’ and our little prince looked like he might lose his lunch all over the polished stones!”

The group laughed at Margo’s jest, and Quentin accepted it with what he considered to be a graceful wave of his hand. The bronze crown ceremony wasn’t exactly a cause for celebration, but the next night they made their own fun in Quentin’s quarters, just a few of his trusted friends to share in the bittersweet occasion. A fire in the hearth warded off the last of the winter’s chill, and with a light supper and some wine they made as merry as they could.

Beside him on a velvet sofa, Eliot finished rolling a cigarette and lit it with a twist of his long fingers, the flames reflecting off the gold lining his eyes. 

“Don’t tease him, Bambi. This is a hard time for our Q.”

Quentin toasted to that, jiggling his foot nervously as his friends soaked up a night of relaxation around him. Young lords and ladies who were promised a comfortable seat at court for their faithfulness. 

For them, this was any other day. For him, it could be his last. 

Fillory had a strange relationship with its monarchs, to be sure. Loving, to the point of obsessive, but King Theodore had been _old._ Settled. Quentin was young, his face smooth of the wrinkles that came with the tests of time. The choice word here was _test._ Fillory liked to test their monarchs before coronating them. For a month, the crown prince would be known as the bronze prince, and for that month his life was forfeit. 

Anyone who wished to take his life, and with it the crown for themselves, then they would be within their rights to do so. A dead bronze prince meant that a weak line had been purged, and that Fillory would be better off for it. This was a fact Quentin’s father had explained to him on the day he turned sixteen and started assuming his princely duties. It had been a bitter birthday, knowing he might not live to see his own reign.

“Don’t look so glum,” Margo said, crossing her legs under her nearly transparent skirts. “There hasn’t been a dead bronze prince in two hundred years, and your family has been well-loved since. It’s not as if anyone is lining up with pitchforks.”

“Thank you, Lady Margo. Your words are _most_ reassuring.”

Margo waved him off as Eliot took a puff of spiced tobacco and blew the smoke into the air, handing Quentin the cigarette. He let the smoke fill his own lungs before settling back into the sofa cushions. 

Eliot draped an easy arm around Quentin’s shoulders. Lazy. Casual. _Fraternal_. 

“It’s moments like these,” Eliot started, pausing to let his head fall back in the very picture of indolence. “That I’m glad you’re a prince.”

“Bronze prince.”

“Oh, I beg your leave, _bronze_ prince.”

A very undignified giggle bubbled up from Quentin’s chest. Eliot squeezed his shoulder, fondly. 

“I suppose the constant fear and diplomatic duties are worth a few creature comforts,” Quentin said. “For you at least.”

“If you’d take a drink with me, _you_ might feel more comforted.”

Quentin shook his head, nursing a libation made from the juice of the last of the apple harvest and honey. It was delicious, but it wouldn’t get him drunk. 

“I haven’t the privilege. My father warned me to stay vigilant.”

A rousing chorus of “May Ember rest his soul” rose up from their modest party, raising their glasses in unison at the mention of the late King Theodore. It was a habit, albeit a sincere habit, but Quentin still felt a pang in his chest when he remembered that his father was gone for good now. 

Eliot drank to the dead king, and then lowered his voice to a near whisper. 

“You could, you know. Have a drink. I’m here.”

Eliot’s breath was warm, and so close to his ear. 

It was a simple platitude: _I’m here._

“I know, El.”

That seemed to satisfy Eliot even though Quentin made no moves to join the rest of the revel makers. He took another puff of the cigarette before passing it back to Eliot, their fingers brushing just barely. 

To an outsider Eliot appeared to be indistinguishable from any other courtier. Decadent, wasteful, beautiful, and mostly useless. He certainly _was_ beautiful, dressed in a tight-fitting quilted jacket that buckled at his waist, black as midnight and trimmed with glimmering violet stitching at the sleeves and collar. His trousers fit tight to his legs, worn with high boots that hugged his finely turned calves. Kohl lined his eyes, just a touch of black and gold that gleamed in the flickering torchlight. He had a delicate touch with cosmetics that Quentin had never managed, even in his youthful dabbling. Powders and rouges adorned many a gaudy face at court, but on Eliot they merely gave an ethereal edge to his masculine features, a touch of fey beauty to bely his true purpose at Quentin’s side.

Most visiting diplomats assumed that Eliot warmed Quentin’s bed, or at least was a friend with very little use. 

How wrong they were. 

“I’m glad the ceremony is over, in any case. I didn’t like you having your back to the entire crowd for so long.” Quentin furrowed his brow, and Eliot clarified: “I could barely concentrate with you left vulnerable.”

Before them, Alice let Margo pour a shot of bright red liquor into her mouth, cackling when she choked and stomped her feet on the ground from the burn. Margo kissed her then, smiling as the spiced drink hit her lips. 

Eliot’s hair tickled Quentin’s ear. He wore his hair in the style favored by many of the soldiers, cropped short and neat around his ears but with length on the top, and a sumptuous curl that was all his own.

Quentin swallowed.They were so close, just so they could speak discreetly, but still, Quentin could pick out every detail of the embroidery on his jacket. If he looked up, he would have an equally intimate a view of Eliot’s eyelashes– 

“You shouldn’t have been concerned with that. Not during the ceremony. I wanted you there solely as my witness, truly.”

“So you’re saying that you should have been vulnerable? To an entire nation that wants to test the rigor of its new king?”

Quentin shrugged. “It’s tradition. And I’m not king yet.”

Eliot’s eyes darkened. “By all the gods, Q, it’s as though you _want–”_

Quentin never found out exactly what he wanted, because the doors opened and in came his youngest attendant Joss, looking more distressed than usual. 

Quentin stood immediately. He had told his servants that he would conduct no more court business tonight. Joss would sooner sever his own hand than disobey a direct order.

“What is it, Joss? Has something happened?”

“Your highness, our bronze prince, my deepest apologies–”

Quentin waved the pomp away with an impatient hand. He was already tired of the required new titles. “It’s alright, just get on with it.”

Joss caught his breath.

“The Lord and Lady McCallister have just arrived, sir, and they are most insistent they be granted an audience with you. I told them that you had retired for the evening, but Lord McCallister is a magician and he–well–”

“Did he threaten you?” Quentin demanded. Whatever his new status for the month to come he wouldn’t have his servants abused in the course of it. 

“Well, no, sir, but he did threaten _you,_ your highness, and with the ceremony having just happened today I didn’t know what the proper– that is to say–”

Joss waved his arms helplessly, panicked and at a loss for words. 

Eliot stood. “Perhaps it would be wise to show them to a room for the evening? These things are better discussed in the light of day.”

“No.” Quentin’s voice was firm. “Tell Lord McCallister that I will see him in my counsel chambers. We’ll settle this now.” 

Joss bowed and turned on his heel to deliver the message. Eliot’s gaze threatened to drill holes in the back of Quentin’s head. Behind them, the party went on, the revelers not noticing the new tension. 

“You’re not actually going to entertain this?” Eliot hissed, coming to stand beside Quentin. “The McCallisters showing their ugly faces the day after your ceremony? It’s obviously a power play.”

“You would suggest I look weak at this crucial moment?” Quentin snapped back, tucking his hair behind his ears and refusing to meet Eliot’s eye. “The affairs of the realm can hardly grind to a halt solely for my benefit.”

“You don’t need to hear petitions from every backwater lord with his eyes on the throne—“

Quentin clenched his jaw. “Enough. If I needed counsel, I would ask for it.”

When he finally met Eliot’s gaze, it was hard. Unyielding as the blade he wore strapped to his side. 

“As you say, your highness,” Eliot said, nostrils flaring. “But I will be there with you. Or am I banished from your company as well?”

“Eliot—“

“I would only like to know if I will be permitted to do my duty to you.”

Quentin gave in, his princely resolve melting whenever Eliot brought up his _duty_ to him, as if Quentin kept him here against his will. 

“Of course.” He drew his gaze away from Eliot’s piercing hazel eyes. “It would be improper for me to be without my witness, so soon after the ceremony.” 

Eliot helped Quentin choose a coat, something a little more substantial and princely to frame the flimsy powder blue tunic Eliot had suggested for their revelry tonight. The sturdy wool settled on his shoulders like armor, the ermine trim at the cuffs and throat a clear reminder of his status. He strapped his sword to his side as well, for good measure. 

“How do I look?” He asked Eliot and Margo, who surveyed him judgmentally in all their finery. 

“Like a princeling in his pajamas, and a king’s robe,” Margo declared. 

“Don’t listen to her, Q.” Eliot smiled lazily, shaking his head at her. “You look well enough, let me just—“

Eliot turned him around, pulling his fingers through Quentin’s long hair to sweep it back from his face. Then he twisted the strands into a neat plait, his warrior’s hands deft and quick. Quentin only barely managed to enjoy the brush of his fingers against Quentin’s scalp before he was tying off the braid with a cord Margo provided. 

“Thank you,” Quentin said, shivering as Eliot smoothed the end of the braid before stepping back. 

Eliot shrugged, seemingly unaffected. “I would rather Lord McCallister not have an entire head of hair to grab onto, should he wish to test the constraints of the bronze crown.”

Eliot meant it in jest, Quentin felt himself cooling from the warmth of Eliot’s touch, replaced with nerves. The realities of the bronze crown were grim. 

At least he had Eliot with him. 

“Let’s not keep his Lordship waiting.”

The meeting wasn’t the immediate assassination attempt Quentin had expected, but it quickly grew unpleasant. Lord McCallister had several complaints about King Theodore's last bit of legislation, an initiative to help small Fillorian farmers come to own their own plots of land, rather than be completely beholden to their lord. 

“This is a very insult to our way of life, our traditions. Your Highness, I implore you to see reason where your father could not—“

“King Theodore sought to do right by his kingdom. _All_ its subjects,” Quentin reminded the old noble firmly, leaning back in his seat. It wasn’t a throne, but the heavy oak gave him at least some sense of stability “These people still pay a significant tax to you, but can now make a more predictable living as the magic in the soil always works better for the person who owns the land. What complaint could you have?”

Lord McCallister sputtered, his face a red mask of fury. “But— we can’t have serfs owning land— it will cause an outrage, a very upheaval of everything we have ever—“

Eliot, a dark figure standing in the corner, cleared his throat. The lord started, just noticing him. 

Quentin raised his eyebrows. “You were saying, Lord McCallister?”

Eliot kept himself present while Quentin continued his conversation with the disgruntled lord. He settled on a sofa by the wall, more visible, draping his arm across the back with one of his legs propped up on a tasseled ottoman. Lord McCallister’s voice wavered when Eliot stood, pacing around the room as if to look at the art on the walls, twirling a dagger casually in his fingers. Quentin would have rolled his eyes—he would have _some_ chance defending himself against the paunchy old noble—but at this late hour the shadows even in this smaller meeting chamber grew long, and Quentin found himself reassured by the glint of the blade in his friend’s hand, not to mention the knowledge that Eliot kept several more hidden discreetly on his person. 

“King Theodore’s word remains law, I’m afraid,” Quentin replied, returning his attention to Lord McAllister after another string of complaints. “And as the acting monarch I have the power to uphold or dismantle it as I see fit. I choose to give our people more power to control their fate. Would you be the one to take it from them?”

“I— I, of all the– Why I have never been so disrespected, so ignored, and I a loyal servant to your father for so many years—“

“A loyal servant that would see his dying wish be disregarded before he is cold in the ground.”

Behind them, Eliot met his eye. _The time grows late,_ it said. Quentin was supposed to be locked in his quarters by now. The night was the most dangerous time for a bronze prince.

Lord McCallister followed his gaze, grimacing and pointing in anger when he saw where Quentin looked. 

“I will not be intimidated by your— your _guard_ dog.” He drew himself up to his full height, sticking his nose in the air. “Must I remind you of your status? The _fragility_ of your current position?”

McCallister took a step too close, and in less than a breath Eliot stood between him and Quentin, dagger in hand. With a deft grip he rested the tip of his blade against the brocade of the lord’s jacket, fraying the material just so slightly under its razor sharp edge. The air hummed around him like a plucked bowstring, his tall frame looming over the lord despite his casual posture.

“It would be my privilege to remind you of your status as a _guest_ here,” Eliot said slowly, evenly, as if discussing the weather. “My lord. And I might further entreat you to take a step back from His Highness.”

The lord frowned but obeyed, looking down at where the blade hovered above his heart. 

“So this is to be how King Quentin begins his rule? With such insult?”

Quentin shrugged, making no move to call Eliot off. 

“It is as you say, Lord McCallister. I am not king yet.” He rose from his seat, and only then did Eliot lower his blade. “Come, I will make sure that you are given some food for your long journey home, and a bed to rest for the night. I have heard your complaints and will take them into account in my next meeting with my advisors.”

It was the most diplomatic Quentin could be under the circumstances. The lord followed without further complaint, curiously silent as Quentin told the steward to give him hospitality for the night. 

“Do you ever have the feeling that something was too easy?” Quentin asked Eliot as they walked back to his chambers. The party had wound down in their absence, and the room was empty save for servants gathering glasses when they entered. 

“All the time, Your Highness.”

Quentin made a face. Eliot always reverted to formal titles and ceremony when he was most vigilant about Quentin’s safety. By morning light, his friend would be calling him Q again. 

“I think I’ll retire. Will you be in the yard in the morning? I should like some sparring practice after such an infuriating meeting.”

Eliot was paying more attention to the shadowing corners of the room than their conversation. “Of course, your highness, whatever you like.”

“Eliot—“

“Should you not be alone here tonight?” Eliot interrupted, going to fiddle with the old latch on his bedroom window. “After that display by his lordship—“

“Eliot,” Quentin repeated, putting a hand on his friend’s shoulder to draw his gaze. “It’s been a long day. Lord McCallister is a brute, but his family has no long-standing quarrel, and has never tried to claim the throne. I think I’m safe tonight.”

Eliot narrowed his eyes. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

“What happened to ‘Your Highness’?” Quentin teased. 

Eliot sighed, shaking his head. Quentin dropped his hand. 

“You know I’m right through the door, should you need me?”

Quentin nodded. “I do. You’re already familiar with the sound of my distress—“

“That rat wasn’t very big at all, Q—“

“And you need your rest, even more than I do. I expect a challenge on the sparring grounds tomorrow.”

Eliot left only after searching every corner of Quentin’s vast chambers, the door to their adjoining rooms closing with a soft thunk, the latch left undone. Quentin didn’t wish to disturb the servants who had long gone to bed, so he hung his clothes over a chair and settled between the sheets in his smallclothes to try and sleep. Though nerves twisted at his gut, he blew out the candle and fell to slumber rather quickly. 

He slept fitfully, the boundary between dreams and wakefulness rather thin. He felt the scratch of the bedclothes on his skin, but also saw dreamlike figures move in front of his eyes, a parody of the ceremony the day before. He was in the throne room, but now it was dark and dingy. He approached the dais, wearing ought but his old soldiers uniform, his boots covered in blood. A twisted looking Lord Fogg placed a crown upon his head, but this crown was black as obsidian and sat tight against his brow, the blackness swallowing him whole, stealing the breath from his lungs and twisting around him until he was paralyzed, unable to move—

He gasped awake, finding himself hobbled by his own sheets wrapped too tightly around him. He grabbed at them, thrashing until he could move freely once more. He stilled, trying to catch his breath. Just a dream, he reassured himself, only a dream. 

He turned over, meaning to reach for the pitcher of water on his bedside table. In the darkness, a hand reached out. 

“What—“

The hand clamped over Quentin’s mouth, cutting off his voice. The figure was dressed in black, their face covered. They shoved Quentin onto his back—his head thunked painfully with the headboard— pinned him to the bed with their knees on either side of his rib cage and quickly did a simple gesture with their unused hand. It was as if the power of speech had been stolen from him, and when he opened his mouth only air came out. 

So much for his screams, he managed to think, woefully. 

He lunged forward, trying to pitch the would-be assassin off of his torso, to grab for his knife he knew sat on the bureau diagonal to his bed— but they were too heavy, and the spell did more than just steal Quentin’s voice. Dots of blackness marred his vision, numbing his limbs just as the assassin pull a long, thin knife from their belt—

With a bang the door to the adjoining chamber flew open. There were a few moments of struggle, and Quentin stole all his strength to lift his head and see Eliot, a vengeful god in his white night clothes, his hair a halo around his head, holding the struggling assassin hard to his chest, a knife to his throat. 

“You have one chance to say who sent you, blackguard, and I will make your death quick.”

The assassin struggled, and Eliot only pressed his blade harder to their neck, drawing a bead of blood to the surface. 

“The prince’s life is in the hands of the people,” the assassin choked, struggling to speak. “I owe nothing to a bronze prince, and you are a fool to interfere–”

With a glance at Quentin, Eliot turned partially away before yanking the assassin back by the hair and jerking his knife in one, clean motion across his bared throat. Blood poured from the wound, and with a shove the would-be assassin dropped to the ground, clawing at his throat and gasping with a sickening gurgle as he drew his last pained breaths. Eliot watched, grimacing in distaste, before twisting his hand sharply, the crack of lethal magic sharp in the air. There was a snap, and the assassin fell still. 

Eliot rushed to Quentin’s side, frantically running his hands over Quentin’s chest, his arms, his neck, looking for wounds. Quentin shook his head, his vision swimming, pointing to his throat, trying to speak, but it only came out as a cough. 

“Hold on,” Eliot said, eyes widening in understanding. “Just a minute—“

He did a complex hand gesture, mumbling a series of indecipherable words and then with the opening of Eliot’s clenched fist Quentin was coughing, the stranglehold curse on his windpipe lifted. He fell forward against Eliot’s chest, gasping for air as the spots cleared from his vision. 

“Can you speak?”

“Yes,” Quentin croaked, rubbing his forehead against the soft linen of Eliot’s night clothes. “Eliot I’m sorry—He must have put a silencing spell on the room, the guards didn’t even hear–”

Eliot touched him still, as if there was some invisible wound he could find.“The bastard– you could have been killed, just like that, and with me sleeping next door–”

Quentin lifted his face. The fire in Eliot’s eyes nearly burned him. _Eliot regards you beyond mere duty,_ Alice had tried to tell him many times– 

“El–”

His hands circled Eliot’s wrists, stilling him. 

“You still have your knife.”

Eliot pulled away, eyes falling to the knife he had indeed kept clenched in one hand even while checking Quentin. Blood had congealed to it in an ugly gelled mess. He set it on the table beside the bed, taking Quentin’s face between his two hands once more, checking his eyes. 

“Something’s still wrong, can you see me? Your eyes are clouded.”

“I’m fine,” he shook his head, leaning further into Eliot’s touch. His protector’s hands were tacky with blood, and yet he found comfort in it. “I knocked my head on the post when I saw him. Just a bruise.”

“Perhaps you should have kept him alive,” Quentin continued. “A trial would have revealed his employer.”

“None of that matters right now.” Eliot shook his head, letting his hands fall from Quentin’s face. 

Quentin nodded, understanding more as his mind cleared.

A few hours sleep and one strange dream and Quentin had forgotten that this was the most dangerous month of his life. He had forgotten that anyone could kill him and face no consequences, and be given a kingdom for their troubles– 

“Goddamn McCallisters, this reeks of them,” Eliot said.

He stood suddenly, his mouth a hard line. He knocked twice on Quentin’s door, and two guards opened it. 

“Yes, Lord Waugh?” They didn’t sound surprised in the least by Eliot’s state of dress, nor his presence in Quentin’s chambers so late at night, but Quentin did hear a muttered curse as one of the guards spotted the body on the floor in its pool of blood.

“Summon the rest of the guard, there’s just been an attempt on the prince’s life,” Eliot ordered. “Search the castle, every room, no matter its occupant. And we need a healer for his highness, and someone to remove the body…”

Quentin let Eliot’s voice wash over him, his head a throbbing mess of pain. He was conscious of some candles being lit, of a healer laying hands on him, and a low spell murmured to clean away the blood from his skin. There was much discussion of security and the failings of the castle enchantments, of Quentin’s health and wellness. Quentin focused only on Eliot, a strong and tall figure beside his bed, his knife back in his hand, letting none but the most trusted palace healer near him for the rest of the night. He settled back against the pillows, letting the magical sleep aid do its work.

The month of his trial stood before him, long and dangerous. The people of Fillory had a right to kill their monarch now, but in their way stood Eliot. Quentin held onto that thought with a smile as he slipped into a peaceful darkness. 

Ember help them all. 


	2. By the Point of his Sword

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so overwhelmed by all the support this fic has gotten in the past 48 hours! Thank you so much for all of your comments and interest, I can't wait to share the rest of this story with you.

It wasn’t as if Quentin was helpless. 

Eliot knew this. He knew this in his mind, clear and practical as the truth always was. He knew it so well that the morning after the first attempt on the life of the bronze prince he even allowed Quentin to dress alone in the chamber off of his bedroom with only one servant in the room to attend to him. Eliot ceded that he would still be able to protect Quentin from outside the door, where any sort of tussle could be easily heard and dealt with. 

He chewed on his bottom lip, sitting in an uncomfortably straight-backed chair and aggressively cleaning his knife. He hadn’t gotten a chance the night before, not after dispensing with the assassin, too busy standing guard over his wounded prince and snarling at anyone besides the healer who dared get too close. He must have painted quite a feral picture, still in his night clothes and his blade crusted with blood. It was a fool’s mistake. Rusted weapons could cause a whole host of problems, even with the many enchantments he added to them. As he worked Eliot minded the slim ring of white gold that adorned his right ring finger, lest the flesh warm metal flash hot as it had the night before when it had awoken Eliot from his slumber without a moment to lose.

Prince Quentin Coldwater had gone through ten years of training in swordsmanship, as many in magic, he reminded himself. He had served in the Fillorian army from his eighteenth year until he turned twenty five and was summoned home to prepare for his reign. He knew all the most useful battle spells, and could hold his own in an altercation, with or without a blade. If he couldn’t, he would have been dead long before now. 

Eliot hadn’t always been there, protecting him, as much as it felt that way. 

Eliot had grown up poor in the northern forest of Fillory, where travelers would come and test their luck at a puzzle so complex that it seemed to be set by Umber himself. He lived a mile from it, this mosaic, and his father made a living selling food and supplies to the adventurers who stayed to try their hand at it. They never succeeded, always disappearing into the night, embarrassed and seething from the puzzle’s unmercilessly simple goal:

Depict the beauty of all life. 

Eliot, born to a simple farmer and a mother who used only the most basic magic to dry clothes faster on the line, grew up watching these travelers. The puzzle itself held little interest to him, only the people who attempted to unravel its secrets. Tall, courageous men and women with strange names and clothes that did magic not by simply relying on the magic of the land, on what Fillory provided, but with smooth and practiced movements of their hands, forcing magic to do their will. 

He had never seen such a feat before, but he felt—he dared to think, that the same power moved in him. That perhaps he was meant for something greater than a farmer’s life. 

Boys grew, and Eliot was no different. He began to see his father for who he truly was (a bitter man who dealt with his problems with homebrewed moonshine and a flailing backhand). When a bout of sickness swept through the north woods during the winter of his eighteenth year, taking his mother’s life and any tie Eliot felt to his childhood home with it. He left, taking to the wilds of Fillory to find his destiny. 

He learned quickly that he’d been right, that he did have power, and that it didn’t come free. Eliot rarely cared to think about much about his past beyond that. 

He gained the skill he had so desired, regardless, magic and sword fighting and as many ways to kill a man as there were stars in the sky. Eventually he left that life, looking for a new challenge. 

That led him to a treasured moment some years later when he knelt before High King Theodore, his hair damp with sweat and his body sore and exhausted. 

But elated. 

“Eliot Waugh, hailing from the North Woods, I am proud to call you Fillory’s new champion.” 

He placed the laurel wreath upon Eliot’s head, and he smiled as the entire chamber applauded him. The tournament had been long and arduous, rife with skilled opponents who tested Eliot’s skill and ingenuity over and over again. He had bested them all, and all his pain would be worth it if it meant that he would be of use to the High King– 

“Waugh, I would love a word.”

The king had kept him back after the ceremony, his voice sounding strangely small in the now empty and cavernous space of the throne room. Of course, Eliot bowed and came to stand before him, as wobbly as his legs were from the strain of the tournament. 

“You fought bravely today,” King Theodore said, nodding to Eliot. 

“Thank you, your majesty.”

“Bravely,” the king repeated, leaning his elbow on the arm of the throne. “But also with intelligence and mercy. There was no unnecessary blood spilt on your sword.”

“I am a swordsman, and a protector of Fillory, Your Majesty,” Eliot said, choosing his words carefully. “But I hope not a murderer.”

The king tilted his head to the side, surveying him with warm eyes. 

“Leave us,” King Theodore said to the guards. Once they were alone, he rose, indicating for Eliot to sit at a small stone table off of the dais. 

“Your gifts are impressive, and your performance in the tournament was inspiring. My soldiers needed to see it.” he said first, once the room was empty. “I know you wish to be given a place of power in my army, but alas, I currently have no use for you there.”

Eliot pursed his lips, disappointed. Of course, the High King of Fillory had only the best, and in abundance. What use would he have for a swordsman from the woods? Someone self-taught, who had only been tested by mere sport? 

“Well then, I thank you, sire, for your honors today,” Eliot said, readying himself to be dismissed.

“I wasn’t finished,” King Theodore said softly. “I have no use for you in that capacity, but that’s only because my reign is ending. My people have no quarrel with me, and if they do then they know it will only be a matter of time before they are rid of me, but…”

Eliot was no healer, but he could see the sickness that grew inside the old king, fed and watered by the very wellspring of magic that kept Fillory running.

He sighed, leaning his head against his hand, before continuing. “My son. I worry for him. I worry he’s too gentle for a wild place like this, and these troubled times for our kingdom. The landed nobility of Fillory grow restless, and I fear that they are simply biding their time. My death will bring unrest from within, and then there’s the matter of the bronze crown.”

“The bronze crown, sire?” 

He shook his head. “It’s no matter. These are all things we can discuss later. My point is that my son is the one in need of protection, not me.”

Eliot thought of the prince. He had only seen him twice in his lifetime. Once as a child, looking up from the ground to a boy not much younger than him with a silver crown on his brow, waving from a balcony. His smile had been small but generous. The beloved only son of a widower king, who never left the boundaries of Whitespire until his eighteenth birthday. 

The second time had occurred just this week during the tournament. The slight boy prince had grown into a man who sat at his father’s right hand, wearing his hair long to his shoulders underneath his silver crown. He wasn’t a large man, but neither was he small. He wore a simple sword at his hip, and from the way he walked Eliot could tell that he knew how to use it. He dressed more conservatively than most of the gentry in the room—though no less rich—in soft blues with matte trim, a thick threading of silver embroidery across his chest. He hadn’t spoken, only talked quietly with his father during the many phases of the tournament. Eliot had imagined, as he defeated each opponent, that perhaps the prince’s eyes followed him, and the fantasy had led his blade true until he stood alone in the winner’s circle. Having a handsome face to gaze upon always did wonders for his morale. 

“You would not be unrewarded, in this position,” King Theodore continued, as if Eliot’s silence made him anxious. “I may not be the richest king of Fillory’s memory, but you would be comfortable here.”

Eliot nodded.

“I have no doubt, sire.”

It was settled within the hour. Eliot Waugh, son of a bastard famer, was no more. From here on out, he would be Lord Eliot of the Mosaic Woods, Champion of Fillory and Protector of the Realm. 

“It’s a discretionary title,” the king explained, taking the last of the signed documents from Eliot’s hands that sealed his fate. “I am allotted a certain amount in my time as king. It will keep any nosy extended family from questioning your presence here. But I think it would be best that your official duties be… kept between us.”

“I get your meaning, Your Majesty. And… If you’ll forgive me asking,” Eliot said, “What does the crown prince think of all this?”

The king frowned, only slightly. 

“He sees the necessity of it.” 

Before he could elaborate, there was a soft knock at the door. “Right on time. Come in, Quentin.” the king called informally. 

Prince Quentin entered with soft footsteps. He had changed from his finer clothes from the ceremony into the daytime outfit of a soldier, well worn brown boots with a deep blue embroidered tunic belted at his trim waist. Eliot stood immediately and bowed, not willing to remain seated in the presence of not one but two members of the royal family. The prince glanced at him before turning to the king. 

“You wanted to see me, father?”

King Theodore stood as well, adjusting his robes and gesturing soberly to Eliot. “You know Eliot Waugh, our tournament champion.”

Quentin nodded at him. “Indeed. Congratulations, you fought admirably.”

“Thank you, Your Highness.”

“It is I who should be thanking you.” The prince looked to his father briefly. “That is, if you have accepted our offer.”

The prince smiled at him, hope and just a touch of steel locked in his gaze. Eliot felt a dangerous thud in his chest, a tightening around his heart. It wasn’t the cold and detached gaze of a courtier, nor the arrogant sneer of a spoiled prince. This was a man with his feet firmly attached to the earth and unless Eliot was mistaken, unless his judge of character proved false in the future, he could see now that this was a prince that would be a privilege– nay– _a joy_ to protect. 

Eliot took another step forward, dropping to one knee and placing one hand over his heart. He saw Prince Quentin’s eyes widen in surprise before he bowed his head. 

“It will be my honor, Your Highness. I swear to you– your trials shall become mine, and any danger that would seek you out will find my sword. I will see to it that you rise to your throne healthy and whole.” Eliot swallowed, his voice clear despite the tremble in his limbs. “I swear fealty to you for all of my days. I can only pray that you will accept this humble swordsman from the north to be your protector, and find me worthy of this sacred duty.”

There was a moment of silence, punctured only by the sounds of birds singing outside the open windows and the muffled voices of courtiers in the halls outside of the throne room. It was all quiet compared to the beat of Eliot’s heart. 

It was the king who spoke next. 

“What say you, my son?”

Keeping his head only slightly bowed, Eliot chanced a look up at the prince. His lips were parted in shock. He took a breath, and then another, exhaling before offering his hand. Eliot took it, allowing the prince to help him to his feet, the touch of his fingertips to Eliot’s lingering past the moment of necessity. 

Beside him, the king smiled. Evidently, this pleased him. 

“I accept your oath, Eliot Waugh.” The prince swallowed, his throat clicking in the quiet room. His next words were hushed, less princely. “And I thank you for it.”

Eliot smiled as Prince Quentin let their hands drop apart. He nodded a bow to his father, and with their business so concluded he began to walk towards the door. Instinct pulled at Eliot to follow, and he bowed low to the king before trailing after his new charge, a silent figure behind the prince. His protector, and someday perhaps his friend. 

This would be Eliot’s calling. This would be his redemption. 

~

“Last night, an attempt was made to end my life. An assassin stole into my bedroom with the aim to slit my throat.”

The crowd of courtiers gasped and moaned their shock as Quentin made his announcement in the throne room that morning. Eliot scowled at all of them. Weak and fair-weather they all were, and he had no doubt that some had had a hand in the attempt themselves. 

Quentin spoke without accusation, with barely any emotion at all. His prince was dressed somberly, a dove gray cloak over a cerulean tunic in wool meant to warm him against the threat of his own mortality. He stood next to the throne, not allowed to sit on it until his coronation, but there was evidence of his soldier’s training in the way he held himself tall and straight as an arrow. 

“The assassin was quickly dispensed with,” Quentin continued. Eliot felt the weight of many eyes on him, though Quentin’s were not among them. They had agreed it was best that his capacity as Quentin’s protector remain an ill-kept secret at this point. “And we have identified his employer. They have been removed from the castle, but in keeping with the tradition of the trial month, they shall not be charged with a crime.”

Eliot smiled to himself. ‘Removed from the castle’ was Quentin’s princely manner of describing Eliot at dawn, flanked by ten guards, dragging the Lord and Lady McCallister from their beds and tossing them out on their asses. He couldn’t kill them, but he needn’t be kind either. 

“So, this is real then?” Margo called out, her painted mouth slashing downward in a frown. “Not just a formality, people might actually try and kill you?”

Quentin pursed his lips. Margo always did get to the point. 

“It would appear so.”

Quentin dismissed his court a few minutes later, assuring everyone that every precaution would be taken to ensure no one else was hurt in the crossfire of his trial. Margo strode over to Eliot, the long train of her midnight blue dress trailing over the floor. Like all ladies of court, Margo showed her wealth in the extra inches of fabric she could afford to let drape on the ground and hang from her wrists. For such a small woman she carried the excess material with great elegance, her presence as magnetic as an enchanted gem even among the grand finery of court.

“My lord.” 

“My lady.” Eliot kicked off from the wall he had been leaning against. He had been aiming for subtlety, but such efforts were fruitless in Margo’s company. He offered her his arm, and they fell into an easy step about the large and crowded room.

“I imagine you didn’t sleep very well last night,” she said, after some moments. 

“Keep your voice down,” Eliot nearly whispered, though he kept his expression mild. The courtiers would expect them only to be exchanging gossip, as they were often wont to do when Eliot was not on duty

Margo shrugged. “If you think anyone is still doubtful of who is protecting Q, then I’m a talking sloth.”

Margo was one of the few Quentin and Eliot trusted in the court. The Hansons were an old family, loyal to the Coldwater line and known for their bone deep distaste for subterfuge. Eliot had met Margo in his first year at Whitespire castle, when her carriage had been overrun by bandits only a mile from the gates. He had been out on a night time walk when he had found her, brandishing a knife to protect herself and her handmaidens from the ruffians. They had fought side by side to scare them off, and had been friends ever since. 

“His Highness doesn’t want to make known any advantages we might have at this time more obvious than they need be,” Eliot said. “Besides, I very nearly _didn’t_ save him last night, so his confidence in my abilities can’t be at its highest point.”

Margo rolled her eyes. “Yes, our prince is roiling with doubt, I’m sure.

“What do you mean by _that?”_

Margo shrugged elegantly. “Nothing. Just that Q has long been puzzling out a way beyond an assassin’s blade to draw you to his— Oh hello, my dear.”

Alice of Quinn approached, her white magician’s robes pristine in the morning light. With her fair hair hanging in a simple plait down her back, she was ostentatiously plain among the decorated nobles of court. It suited her, as did the fizz of magic that hovered on the back of Eliot’s tongue whenever he was in her proximity. There were many nobles who practiced magic, but one did not become a court sorcerer without great cause. 

“Hello,” Alice blushed as Margo pecked a kiss to her cheek, turning to Eliot. “I only wished to tell you that I just strengthened the enchantments you placed on Quentin’s room. They should be all but impenetrable to magicians and commoners alike except for those who have His Highness’ consent.”

Eliot nodded. Alice of Quinn, apprentice to the late King Theodore’s high court magician, was now the most powerful sorceress in Whitespire since Lord Fogg’s final act as officiant of Quentin’s ceremony. 

“I trust you to keep Q safe, Lord Waugh.”

Bearing the weight of Alice’s ice blue, impenetrable gaze was one of the few things that could make Eliot feel his nerves. 

“As always.”

“I missed you this morning,” Margo said, breaking the tension to touch Alice under the chin with light fingers. “The bed is so cold without you.”

Fillory’s most powerful magician also happened to be Quentin’s former betrothed, and Margo’s current lover. No one could ever say that Whitespire was a boring place.

“My lady…” Alice blushed even pinker, if it were possible. 

Who could blame her? Margo’s affection was a force. 

“Don’t scandalize our dear Alice so, Margo,” Eliot said, but pleased with their happiness nonetheless. “She is a proper scholar, one whose reputation is still somewhat intact, I believe.”

Alice shook her head. “I’m not so easily scandalized, Lord Waugh.”

Their teasing subsided as Quentin approached their little group, finally free of the many courtiers who sought his attention. Eliot noted the dark circles under his eyes, the shallow lines of worry around his mouth. 

“This is a merry band.” His smile was more than forced as he accepted the short bow and curtseys necessary between them all in public. 

Margo and Alice expressed their vitriol over the events of the night before, and their confidence in his future security, reassuring him that they were at his service should he need anything. Quentin nodded and received their words, ever the gracious prince, but to the most practiced eye—that is to say, Eliot’s—his impatience was clear. 

After Alice and Margo took their leave, hand in hand, Eliot took his place at Quentin’s side. 

“You look tired,” Eliot said as they walked together from the throne room. “No one would fault you if you took a rest before your meetings this afternoon.”

“My advisors think I should remain visible,” Quentin said. “Present a strong picture.”

“You won’t present any kind of strength if you should faint in front of the courtiers.”

“Eliot,” Quentin said softly, shaking his head. “I can’t. When I close my eyes I just see– the assassin, with his knife. I had no voice to scream.”

“And yet here you stand.”

“Eliot.”

Eliot reached out, squeezing Quentin’s shoulder briefly. “No– I mean. Yes, I understand. Keeping busy might be best.”

Quentin led him through a doorway to the practice yards, a spacious, dirt-floored hall where the guards and soldiers of the castle came to develop their skills. 

“What are we doing here?” Eliot asked, the clash of steel against steel as familiar a sound to him as his own heartbeat. But after last night, it couldn’t possibly be as reassuring to Quentin’s ears.

Quentin removed his cloak, passing it to a waiting servant. “We had talked about sparring yesterday. I didn’t think our plans had changed.”

“Q–”

“Would you deny me some measure of solace?” Quentin asked. “In my time of trial?”

Eliot rested his hands on the pommel of his sword. “I wouldn’t think further violence would bring you peace after what happened last night.”

“Last night?” Quentin accepted a sword handed to him, checking the dull practice blade against the pad of his thumb. “Do you refer to when my friend saved my life?”

Eliot pursed his lips. Quentin smiled at him then, as though Eliot had not cut a man’s throat before his very eyes mere hours ago. 

“Come on, Eliot. You know I’m no match for you. I only ask for a distraction.”

At the word _distraction_ something stirred in Eliot’s belly. He saw Quentin, bare save for the crown upon his head, back arched in ecstasy as Eliot sank between his legs… Yes. Eliot would have been glad to distract him— he would keep him safe, and pleasured, and Quentin would know no further violence. He would be glad to distract the prince in such a manner for the entire month of his trial, should Quentin only give him the command—

He blinked, the unchaste vision gone as quickly as it had come, replaced with guilt. 

“Eliot?”

Quentin eyed him, evidently concerned by Eliot’s silence.

Eliot smiled, a paste, and bowed mockingly low. 

“How could I deny my prince his wish?”

Quentin took a fighting stance, a lively challenge in his eyes. 

Eliot drew one of the practice swords from the rack, and they had their play. Quentin was a good fighter, straight forward, without any of the flowery flourishes most nobles indulged in. But still, there was something formal about his style. Eliot counted the holes in his technique, the way he left himself vulnerable in favor of breaking the rigid postures he had been taught. Quentin had seen battle, had protected his land, but he had never looked a man in the eyes with the intent of taking his life or losing his own. 

It was one of the things Eliot loved most about him. 

They sparred until sweat dripped down Eliot’s brow and there was a pleasant ache in his muscles. Eliot bested him two out of three, allowing the prince one win. 

“That’s not fair,” Quentin said when Eliot fell dramatically to the ground. “You let me knock your sword out of your hand.”

“Q, I have too much pride to let another man win,” Eliot lied. “You caught me on the downswing.”

Quentin rolled his eyes but held out a hand to help Eliot to his feet, dusting off a bit of dust from Eliot’s tunic. Eliot felt his cheeks warm. 

The heat of battle, no doubt.

“Well, time grows short. I must have dinner with the Lorian diplomats tonight, and they are set to arrive any minute.” Quentin took his practice sword and Eliot’s, handing them to a servant. “A bath, I think, before we change?”

The hot springs that bubbled beneath Whitespire castle were something of famous legend throughout Fillory, with fact in this case equal to fiction. Enormous white stone basins sank into the ground of the bath hall, each filled to the brim with steaming water hot straight from the depths of the earth. The room itself was balmy and warm for an underground chamber in the dead of winter. Moisture swirled through the air, which flickered with the light from torches installed along the walls. 

A servant helped Quentin out of his clothes. Eliot averted his eyes as the fastening’s of Quentin’s jacket came free, and he was bared from the waist up, idly scanning a tapestry on the wall. It depicted a knight beheading a dragon. 

“My father always wanted to get rid of that,” Quentin said.

Eliot waited until he heard Quentin step into the bath. 

“He had more important matters on his mind than art in the baths,” Eliot said, turning. “That’s what made him a great king.”

Quentin rested his arms on the lip of the basin. “Is that all it takes? To ignore trivial matters?”

Eliot crossed his arms, leaning on a pillar. “That would depend on what the king deemed trivial.”

Quentin tilted his head, blinking softly, watching him intently. Eliot itched under his collar again. 

“I’d thought you would enjoy a bath as well,” Quentin said, evidently tired of the subject of art. “Which is why I invited you down here.”

Eliot shifted on his feet. “I’m not comfortable leaving you unguarded while you are vulnerable.”

Quentin glanced around the room. Two servants folded towels a few paces away, but no one else was visible, even though the bathing room was vast. The steam covered everything in a blanket of warmth and comfort, but Eliot only saw a shroud for another assassin to hide themselves. The room was well-lit but dim, he needed all his senses on alert. 

“Do you think someone will try again?” Quentin asked quietly, pillowing his head on his crossed arms. His hair was wet and loose around his face, curling slightly at the ends. 

It made him look younger, less like a prince. 

Eliot nodded. “I do.”

Quentin sighed. There was a soft movement of water and when Eliot glanced back Quentin had stood, pouring a clay pot of water over his head. He used a dish of soap to clean his hair and body, his hands wide and strong. The soft light warmed Quentin’s pale skin, the water running down his back in rivulets, beading along the curve at the base of his spine– 

Eliot bit his lip until the pain distracted him. He looked away again, his pulse quickening. He sweated beneath the close-fitting brocade of his jacket, he felt his hair curl wildly in the damp when he tried to smooth it back from his face. He still had his sword strapped to his belt, a violent thing in a decadent place such as this. A reminder of his true purpose here, the only reason he would be permitted to keep the company of a prince in his most intimate moments.

“You needn’t be nervous,” he said, hating the crack in his voice. “I’ll not leave you until this trial is done.”

Quentin laughed softly, drawing a cloth over the back of his neck. “Leave me? Where would you go?”

Eliot swallowed. Where indeed?

“I mean leave you unguarded, Q. Alone.”

A slight tremor ran through Quentin. He held the cloth to his chest, thinking. Of course, the prince was nervous, perhaps even afraid. That he could show such vulnerability to Eliot was the highest honor he could imagine. 

Quentin sank beneath the water, disappearing for a moment to rinse away the lather on his hair and body. When he emerged, he smiled again, his hair plastered to his head.

“We will make the best of it.” He reached an arm out, and a servant stepped forward to hand him a towel embroidered with twisting green vines. “I’m sure there’s worse company you could keep for the remainder of the month.”

Eliot didn’t look away as Quentin stepped out of the bath, treated to a glimpse of his bare hip before Quentin covered himself completely with his towel. 

“The opposite,” Eliot said quietly, unsure if Quentin could even hear him. “There is none better.”

Quentin looked up at him, his eyes wide. 

“Your Highness!”

There was a bang, and then one of the older guards burst into the room, panting and red-faced. 

“What is it, Faulk?” Quentin said, his bemusement replaced with princely confidence.

“Sir– the Lorian prince, he’s–” He gasped for air again; Eliot felt a twinge of impatience. “He’s in the throne room now, demanding to see you– saying he wishes to challenge you for the crown!”

Quentin went white, pursing his lips. “Keep him there. I need a moment to– to dress before I’ll meet with him. Have the guards barricade the doors.”

“Yes sir.”

Faulk took the stairs two at a time, leaving Quentin and Eliot alone in tense silence. 

“This was supposed to be a diplomatic visit,” Eliot hissed angrily. The pommel of his sword secure in his hand offered small comfort against a new threat. “Loria has never shown interest in acquiring Fillory.” 

Quentin pinched the bridge of his nose. “I know. Hopefully this is all but a– some kind of misunderstanding.”

Eliot nodded, grave. If this Lorian prince was a representative of his king, then Fillory could be facing far greater instability than that of its prince’s month long trial.

The next several minutes were frenzied, with Quentin and Eliot rushing back up to Quentin’s chambers where he could change into something suitable to meet with a foreign dignitary, and one who wished to kill him at that. 

“No, not another blue tunic, Q, it makes you look soft–”

“I _am_ soft, Eliot! In case you haven’t realized!”

Once Quentin calmed his nervous anger, he took Eliot’s advice and instead wore a deep maroon tunic with gold stitching over black trousers with his high black boots. Eliot helped him strap his sword to his belt, Quentin’s hands shaking enough to make the movement difficult. 

“This trial has made me into an invalid.”

“Not true.” Eliot finished securing the buckle. “There. And I think you should–”

Eliot took the bronze crown from where it sat on Quentin’s bureau in his hands, placing it on Quentin’s head and adjusting it to sit just above his brow. Quentin’s hair skin was warm and his hair still damp from the bath.

“I think you should present the most royal picture possible. Make sure they know that Fillory already has a king, and it will be you.”

“That’s treasonous, El,” Quentin whispered, betraying his terror. “I– Fillory has no king, unless I survive the month.”

“You will.” Eliot set his hands upon his shoulders, forcing him to meet his eyes. “By my life, Quentin Coldwater, you _will.”_

Slowly, Quentin met his gaze, steeling himself, and nodded. 

The bronze crown was battered and tarnished, meant to humble its wearer instead of glorifying. And yet, it caught the light just as well as Eliot followed behind Quentin on his way to the throne room. 

The Lorian Prince stood on the dais, next to the throne. Eliot’s hand immediately went to his sword, but Quentin stilled him. 

“Not yet. Talk first.”

“I had thought the cowardly bronze prince would have already run away!” The Lorian prince called from the dais, resting his hand on the back of the throne. “I heard an assassin almost bested you as you laid sleeping last night. They say you begged for your life, care to confirm the rumor?”

Eliot nearly growled, anger burning in his chest. Quentin gave him another look. _Wait,_ it said, _Trust me._

“Prince Sindar,” Quentin said, his voice an even tone. “We welcomed you and your party here, and are glad to host you. What is this nonsense I hear of a challenge? We were to have a banquet in your honor tonight.”

Prince Sindar’s lip curled. “I care not for diplomacy, not with a false monarch.”

Quentin held his chin high. 

“I’m afraid I’m all the monarch Fillory has at themoment.”

Ember bless him– 

“Our countries have no quarrel, and we would hardly interfere with Loria’s coronation rituals. The matter of the bronze crown–”

“Makes you a _false_ prince, and one who can be easily disposed of.”

In a flash Eliot had his sword drawn, shielding Quentin with his body and his blade. 

“You would die before you touched him.”

Sindar drew his own sword, catching the late afternoon light and casting a prism over the stone floor. Quentin sighed, placing his fingers on the side of Eliot’s blade, encouraging him to lower it. 

“If a duel is what you seek, Prince Sindar, then you will have it.”

Eliot turned to him, sputtering– 

“Your Highness, you can’t be serious–”

Quentin held up a hand. Silence. Eliot closed his mouth, bile rising in his throat. 

“I am.” He turned once more to the foreign prince. “I would much rather solve this peacefully, but as you seem keen on violence, then violence you shall receive. We cross swords at dusk. The one left alive shall take the crown of Fillory for their own.”

He held out a hand, and with his sword lowered Sindar stepped forward and took it. Quentin’s word was bond now. Old magic. 

The next moments were a flurry of movement and preparation edged with panic. The arena needed to be made ready, an audience of nobles gathered– a royal duel would not be a private affair, especially not during Quentin’s month of trial. 

Eliot followed Quentin to his quarters while the castle staff set to work.

“We just received word from King Idri of Loria,” Eliot said, “He says his son acts of his own accord. He is twelfth in line for the throne, and wishes for glory beyond his station. Loria does not wish to claim Fillory, only Sindar. King Idri accepts his son’s fate and will not interfere.”

“That’s cold,” Quentin muttered while nervously rifling through his weapons trunk.

“That’s _wise_ ,” Eliot retorted. Whatever the immediate danger of the duel that set Eliot’s ring burning hot around his finger, at least there would be no war with Loria to fear in the aftermath. 

“I need you to call the blacksmith,” Quentin said, beginning to ramble as his nerves set in. “Lord knows my sword hasn’t been sharpened in a month and it’s my only good one since I broke my father’s in that sparring match– 

“Quentin–”

“--so stupid, that sword was miles better and now I’ll be facing a warrior prince with a dinged blade–”

“Q–”

Quentin waved a scabbard meant for a curved blade. 

“And what in the hell happened here? I sent this out for cleaning _months_ ago and it looks _worse._ I’ll have to have a talk with the steward–”

“Your Highness.”

Eliot took the empty scabbard from Quentin’s hand. 

“You’re not fighting Sindar.”

Quentin stopped, exhaling hard, his jaw tense. 

“I have to, Eliot. This duel must happen if I am to retain the respect of the people–”

“The duel must happen,” Eliot repeated. “In this we agree.”

“Then why are you fighting me–I can’t be distracted right now–”

“I will be the one to face Sindar.” Eliot turned, replacing Quentin’s scabbard in his weapons trunk. “As your champion.”

“As my…” Quentin weaved a little where he stood, looking even paler than before, if such a thing were possible. “Eliot, of all the stupid things–”

“It’s not stupid, it’s my only actual public duty,” Eliot continued. “I did it before, for your father. I fight in tournaments for the crown. A king does not fight his own battles, he sends others in his stead. Only the best. _I’m_ the best.”

“And the most humble, apparently…” Quentin grumbled.

“If you face Sindar, and win, you will always be known as a prideful king, who would stain his hands with blood to prove nothing but a point. And if you should lose–” Eliot’s throat closed. He exhaled. “If you should lose then your chances to reclaim the throne would be zero. With me as your champion, you show that Fillory not only will have a strong king, but others that will defend her beside you.”

When he turned once more to face Quentin, he looked strange, his hands empty at his sides. 

“And what if _you_ should lose, oh brave champion?”

Eliot shook his head, a frenzied laugh bubbling up from his throat. 

“I won’t.”

“But what if you do–”

“I _can’t_ lose, Q.”

“Then pride is your sin as well as mine!” Quentin nearly yelled. “Answer me, Eliot. What if you should lose?”

“Q–”

“What becomes of the prince who wears a rusted crown without you here?”

Was it fear, in Quentin’s eyes? Eliot shook his head, unable to look at them any longer.

“There are many who wish for your safety, Your Highness. Many who would take up the mantle in my stead and ensure that Sindar doesn’t actually acquire the throne–”

“Don’t you dare.” Quentin strode across the room to stand in front of him. “You know I’m not talking about the damned throne. Don’t stand there and regard me as only your prince as if we–as if I–”

Quentin stopped, his words half-choked. 

Eliot’s eyes burned. He longed to take Quentin’s hands in his own, to see his prince’s anger melt away, but they remained clenched in fists at his sides. He lowered his voice. 

“Quentin,” he began anew. “I trained for ten years in the wilds of Fillory. I know every spell to make my feet quick and light, every trick to make blades slide off of mine. You know I can do this. I have not failed you yet, and will not now. I would lower myself to one knee right now and swear my fealty to you again if I thought it would do anything besides piss you off.”

Quentin breathed a laugh. A crack. Eliot slipped through it. 

“Let me,” he said softly, his voice barely a whisper as he touched his hand over his own heart. “Let me serve you in this way. Let me protect you.”

Quentin shook his head. “You turn it all on yourself, as if you _want_ to face your mortality tonight.”

Eliot smiled. “It _has_ been too long since I had a proper fight.”

Quentin wet his lips, folding his arms over his chest. 

“Alright.” His tone was lower again, more royal. “Eliot Waugh, Lord of the Mosaic Woods, my champion. I suppose this must be the plan then.”

Eliot nodded his assent, starting for the door to his quarters. “Come.”

“Where are we going?”

“I must prepare for the duel, and if you think I’m letting you out of my sight for a second–”

“Alright, alright, I’m right behind you.”

Quentin was an attentive audience and offered his help, but Eliot couldn’t take it. Couldn’t look Quentin in the eye as he prepared for the duel. His face was too dear to him, held too softly in Eliot’s heart, and he needed to make himself hard and unyielding. 

This was a duel to the death, and no elaborate protection spells or armor would be allowed. He stripped out of his thin tunic, donning instead a grey wrap-style jacket of a thicker material that would protect him from the cold and from any hard falls. It laced up the sides for ease of movement. He replaced his boots with an older, lighter pair in a soft brown, ensuring that he would be quick and light on his feet. 

He left his scabbard in the trunk. He wouldn’t need to sheath his sword during the duel. 

Quentin sat quietly, watching as Eliot chalked simple sigils on the stone floor and began to move his hands through the tuts for spell after spell. Defensive magic was not allowed in these circumstances, but all other advantages were on the table. He knew one to quicken his reflexes, another to make his swings fall harder without any damage to himself. A third would keep his hands clean, lest sweat or blood compromise his grip. In this way, Eliot recalled each painfully earned advantage he could use in the name of Quentin’s honor and safety. His fingers twitched with power once he finished. 

So prepared, there was little left to do but stretch, moving through some simple stances with his sword in hand to raise his blood and prepare for the swift action to come. Eliot kept his eyes closed and breathed, his heart calm. 

This was what he was born to. 

When he lowered his sword and opened his eyes, Quentin was waiting with a thick cloak taken from Eliot’s own wardrobe. 

“To keep yourself warm. There’s a chill outside.”

Eliot allowed him to drape the wool over his shoulders, and pull the hood up to keep his focus. 

“Let’s go.” 

There was an arena outside of the castle where Whitespire hosted tournaments and festivals in less troubled times. Eliot followed behind Quentin, trying to focus on the duel at hand but thinking only of the first time he stepped foot in the arena, a backcountry swordsman without a drop of noble blood, the odds stacked against him. There had been many in the arena that thought a man with so low a station should not be allowed to fight. 

King Theodore had waved them all away. 

“This man knows how to handle a blade, and well. Can you not see it in his eyes?”

Eliot hid his smile, letting his fondness for the old king and his desire to protect the future monarch guide his feet as they stepped out onto the dirt-packed arena yard.The stands were packed with spectators. Courtiers and local gentry, with the common people lined along the fence– All eerily quiet. 

Eliot made eye contact with Margo, who stood out from the crowd in emerald green silk with an ermine collar, her hair coiled high and tight on top of her head. Pinned to her breast she wore a badge of Quentin’s crest, a show of her support for the Bronze Prince. She looked pointedly at the sword in his hand, raising her groomed eyebrows. He shrugged. 

The sun was low in the sky. Eliot would have to be mindful of it, though he had used an enchantment that would protect his eyes from the worst of its glare. Prince Sindar stood on the opposite side of the arena casting a long shadow, an attendant by his side holding his sword. 

“Night approaches,” he called, “I was beginning to think that I would have to come find you myself.”

“Nothing so dramatic will be needed,” Quentin said, waiting until he was at a civilized distance from Sindar to speak. “I’m here.”

“I see that.” Sindar looked Quentin up and down. The hair on the back of Eliot’s neck stood on end, how he would love to wipe that smile from the arrogant Lorian’s face. “But no sword?”

Quentin’s jaw was tense. “I will not be your opponent today.”

“A proxy?” For the first time Sindar’s arrogant smile disappeared. “I will not be facing the bronze prince himself?” 

“I’m afraid not.” Quentin gestured to Eliot behind him. Eliot lowered the hood of his cloak. “This is my champion, Lord Waugh. I have chosen him to fight in my stead.”

Sindar’s lip curled. “This is how the bronze prince responds to a challenge? With a dog sent to fight in his place? Such fear in Fillorian monarchs.”

“This is my will. Do you still wish to continue with the duel?”

Sindar’s face contorted and he spat at Quentin’s feet. “I’m no coward.”

Quentin didn’t move from his stance, his expression carefully passive. “Then it begins in five minutes. Do whatever you need to do to prepare.”

He turned on his heel, not even looking at Eliot as he strode over to the covered area where tournament champions prepared for their events. Silently, Eliot followed. 

Once they were shrouded in shadow, Quentin started to wring his hands, his breath coming in ragged gasps. 

“Q–” Eliot set his sword down on a bench, taking the prince by the shoulders. “I swear I won’t fail you. This will not be the end of the Coldwater line.” 

Quentin brushed him off. “You fool. If you think that any of that matters— that I don’t–”

He stopped, shaking his head. He reached into the cinched purse at his waist, pulling out a silver brooch that sparkled in the low light. 

“Take this.” With shaking fingers, Quentin pinned it to the collar of his jacket, beneath his cloak. “My father sent it with me when I went to the frontlines—I hope it brings you luck.”

Eliot smiled, trying to look cavalier. “Do you think I need luck?”

Quentin frowned, his mouth a hard line. 

“Don’t joke. Just—“ he fumbled a little while fastening the pin, sticking himself with the needle. “Fuck—“

Eliot stilled his hand with his own. 

“Your Highness,” he said firmly. The title seemed to ground Quentin rather than anger him this time, reminding him who he was. “I will not leave you unguarded. There is nothing in the world that can take me from your service, not even the gods themselves.” 

Quentin swallowed, taking Eliot’s hand between two of his own, raising it to his lips to press a kiss to his knuckles. Eliot suppressed a gasp as Quentin lingered there, a moment frozen in time, his breath warm against the back of Eliot’s hand. Hanging free under his crown, Quentin’s long hair brushed the skin of his wrist.

The moment passed. Quentin lowered his hand, stepping back. 

“I must take my place in the stands. May the gods be with you. I’ll– I will be waiting for you after your victory.”

Eliot, his throat stuck together like wet paper, only managed a nod. A nod, and then his prince was gone. 

Eliot shook out his limbs, clearing his throat and trying to calm his racing heart. He took up his sword, giving it one last check and few practice swings. _It will not be the battle that kills me,_ he thought wildly as he blocked an imagined blow, hand still burning from Quentin’s deliberate touch. He finally looked down at the pin Quentin had attached to his jacket. It was a doe, mid-run, set against a spray of wildflowers. He touched it; the silver was still warm from Quentin’s pocket. 

The trumpet sounded. It was time. 

Eliot dropped his cloak and left it behind, gripping his sword firmly and taking to the field with long strides, head held high. The Fillorians in the stands cheered as he walked out to meet his opponent. Eliot took one last look at Quentin, seated high in the royal box next to Margo and Alice. His gaze was intent on Eliot, mouth a thin line. Eliot nodded and looked away. He wouldn’t be able to spare him a glance again. 

Prince Sindar stood in the middle of the field, already in his starting position. He had no more taunts left as Eliot took his place, or perhaps he didn’t believe Eliot to be worthy of them. No matter, Eliot hated talking before a duel anyway. 

There would be no speeches beforehand. No heralds lauding the great deeds of both fighters. This was not a tournament, this was a duel to the death. A duel for a crown. 

Eliot widened his stance an inch, holding his sword before him. 

The trumpet sounded again. It was time to fight. 

As Eliot suspected, Sindar rushed at him with his sword raised above his head, letting out a feral battle cry. Eliot blocked it easily, and then parried the prince’s counter swing. Nothing flashy, just testing the waters. After a particularly hard block, Sindar stumbled back. He held his sword before him, already panting, anger in his eyes.

“Is this the great fighter sent in the bronze prince’s stead? Swing at me!”

Eliot circled his opponent, examining him for weak spots. He held his left arm strangely, perhaps a childhood injury? He mirrored Eliot’s footwork perfectly, but would he be able to improvise?

Sindar adjusted his grip on his sword, and Eliot took the chance to make some offensive strikes. Simple swings, uncomplicated and unlikely to leave his footwork tangled. Sindar blocked each one easily, counter attacking until they broke apart once more. 

“Your king was weak, your prince is a coward, how can you even stand before me?” 

Sindar swung at him twice more, once overhead and another lower, blocked again– the length of his sword dragged along Eliot’s blade, and Eliot turned his, trying to disarm him. Sindar held fast and aimed a blow for Eliot’s head. He stepped back quickly and parried it badly, the reverberation vibrating through his muscles. Sindar pushed, nearly upsetting Eliot’s balance. 

Eliot gasped, trying to right himself and put space between him and Sindar; momentarily, foolishly, taking his eyes off of his opponent. He looked up quick enough to see Sindar aim a swing at the side of his neck. Unblockable at this angle, Eliot dove for the ground, rolling on his back away from the swing and back to his feet a few yards away. The crowd gasped. 

Sindar laughed. “Your standing must be very low among the prince’s friends, for him to sacrifice you so easily to my blade.”

Eliot’s lips curled into a snarl. His knee already throbbed with a new bruise. 

Enough. 

He rushed at Sindar, his strikes quick and merciless. The prince stumbled in his footwork in his haste to parry Eliot’s blows. He gave no quarter, no respite, crowding into Sindar’s space as much as their swords would allow, focusing on the prince’s weak left side. Eliot knew nothing, nothing except the slide of steel alongside steel, the glint of Quentin’s token at his heart, the burn of his ring on his finger, the phantom touch of Quentin’s lips to his hand— 

They locked in place, swords crossed between them. For the first time, Eliot saw fear in Sindar’s darting eyes. Could smell it on his breath. 

“What say you now?” Eliot spat, digging his heel into the ground, bending Sindar back farther. “What do you fight for, prince of no one?”

Sindar tried to push Eliot back, but his center of gravity was all off. He had no leverage. 

“I fight for the man I love.” Eliot gripped his sword tighter, the last of the dusky sun glinting off their blades. He saw the steam of the bath, the way water beaded along Quentin’s skin in the dim light. The flash of his bare hip, covered too quickly in linen. “I would gladly die for him. Have you no one to do the same for you?”

Sindar blinked, and it was as if the terms of their battle had just been made clear to him. There and gone in a flash, Sindar roared, finally pushing Eliot away and aiming a sloppy side strike that Eliot easily blocked. 

“He will know your death today!” Sindar hissed, but Eliot already had the upper hand. He swung at the prince’s side, opening a long gash on the side of his tunic that bloomed with blood, staining the light colored garment immediately. 

The prince gasped, making one more desperate attempt to land a blow. Eliot dodged it, kicking a foot out and landing on Sindar’s chest, pushing him flat on his back. 

Sindar still had his sword in hand, raised above his head in a slapdash parody of defense. Eliot stood above him, pointing his own at Sindar’s chest. 

“Drop your weapon,” he said, words loud and clear that the crowd might hear them. “And I will spare your life.”

Sindar’s lips curled into a smile, blood pooling in the dirt underneath him. 

“Never. I would kill your lover in his sleep, I would not rest until Fillory is mine—“

Eliot didn’t hesitate. 

Raising his sword high, he plunged the blade into Sindar’s heart.

The duel was over. 

The crowd cheered as Eliot pulled his blade free, looking down at the lifeless eyes of the man he had just killed. The prince had refused to show honor even in his moments before death, and now Fillory would send Loria’s son back to King Idri cold. 

Such was the way of things. 

This was no tournament, which meant there was no winner’s circle, no laurel wreath to be place on the victor’s brow. Lorian servants rushed to the field to remove their prince’s body as the Fillorians raided the fields, the captain of the guard raising Eliot’s hand in victory. 

“To Fillory’s champion, defender of the crown, Lord Eliot Waugh!”

The crowd cheered, Margo hugged him and kissed him on the mouth. Someone tried to take his sword from him and he growled at them, his blood still high and his breath coming too fast. 

Quentin was nowhere to be found.

The castle kitchens were already preparing a feast in his honor, the nobles changing into their evening finery for the occasion. There were many who wished to congratulate him, to put another ring on his finger and a cup of wine in his hand, but Eliot politely refused, making excuses until he was alone in the corridor that led to Quentin’s chambers. 

He let himself into the room, letting the door shut audibly behind him, so that Q wouldn’t be surprised. His prince knelt at the small shrine across from his bed, still wearing the clothes he had worn for the duel. He turned when Eliot entered, giving him a nod before returning to his previous activities. Eliot took a seat and waited, watching him.

Fillory had no shortage of gods, to be sure. Ember and Umber were their creators, and received much worship in public festivals. But it was the smaller, more localized deities that often held a more tender place in the hearts of the Fillorian people. Quentin’s shrine was set in honor of the White Lady, a local goddess of the wood and the harvest. She had always been special to those of the Coldwater line. 

Eliot leaned back in his chair as Quentin recited old words, sprinkling blessed rose water over the small ivory altarpiece that bore his patron goddess’ image. Eliot recognized the prayer, his own mother had recited it, in thanks for a good harvest and good health for those she loved.

Quentin finished, bringing the carved ivory to his lips to kiss before rising and dusting off his trousers. 

“I feared someone had carried you off in the celebrations,” Eliot said, as Quentin blew out the votive candles that decorated the little altar. “I thought I said I didn’t wish to leave your side.”

Quentin smiled, coming to sit across from him on his bed. “You deserved a moment of glory, and I needed to give thanks for prayers answered.”

“What did you pray for?”

Quentin shook his head. “Eliot, do you even have to ask?”

Eliot swallowed past the lump in his throat, smiling roguishly instead. “I’m sorry you wasted a petition on me, when there was no possibility of me losing.”

Quentin rolled his eyes, leaning back on his hands. His prince looked relaxed, flushed and happy. 

“I hope I made you proud,” Eliot said, more serious now. 

Quentin blinked, looking down. “You are the best champion a prince could ask for, Eliot. You know that. The way you fight, it’s astonishing. It stole the very breath from my lungs.”

Eliot bowed his head in thanks, but sensed Quentin wasn’t finished. 

“It’s only that–” Quentin stopped, shaking his head

“Only what?” Eliot prompted. 

Quentin sighed. “It’s only that– If I can’t stand and defend my own crown against those who would take it from me in the light of day, then what kind of king will I be? The kind of king who sends others to fight in his stead and never sets foot on a battlefield himself?”

Eliot leaned forward, folding his hands between his knees. “Q, you have seen a battlefield. I know of the skirmishes you won in the name of your father, the way you protected the people at the border from invaders.”

Quentin waved a hand, dismissing Eliot’s words. “I didn’t fight, I merely commanded my men.”

“What do you think kings do?” Eliot stood, coming to sit beside Quentin on the bed. “You are more than a man, more than a soldier– you are the leader. A symbol of Fillory’s strength. The people cannot lose you– and they will see that, once this wretched month is over.”

“What if I had lost you?” Quentin said quietly. “Because I hadn’t fought Sindar myself?”

Eliot laughed. “You are more than a soldier Q, but I’m not. It’s what I do. Swordsmen fall by the very weapons they swear by. If I’d been struck down, it would have been the natural way of things.”

“Not to me.” Quentin’s words were sharp, quick, as was his gaze. “How can you speak so foolishly? Do you think I regard you as a mere mercenary?”

“Your Highness–”

Quentin made a frustrated noise, standing and throwing his hands up. He crossed his arms in front of his chest. 

“Never mind,” he sighed after some moments, though there was clearly more he wished to say.

Eliot swallowed, wondering what he had said to upset him so. A few moments of silence passed. Eliot looked down at where the silver doe pin still rested at his collar. He unpinned it, coming to stand in front of Quentin. 

“I wanted to return this to you,” he said. “It brought me strength during the duel, knowing you were there with me.”

“Keep it,” Quentin said, shaking his head. “I’m sure you’ll have to defend my helpless self again.”

Eliot smiled, taking Quentin’s hand. He placed the pin on his palm. 

“I can’t.”

He folded Quentin’s fingers over it, lifting his hand to his mouth and pressing a chaste kiss to his knuckles. An indulgence, but only to return the favor, he told himself. A kiss for a kiss.

“This is a bauble for a prince,” Eliot said, Quentin’s hand still in his own. “And future king. I will see you wear it on your coronation day.”

Quentin took it, letting his fingers brush Eliot’s before parting their hands. 

“Then I’ll have to find another way to express my gratitude.”

Eliot shivered, unable to look away from Quentin’s warm gaze.

“Your ring,” Quentin said, puzzled, “It’s so warm. Is it always like that?”

Eliot fiddled with the white ring on his hand. It was indeed warm, almost hot to the touch. 

“Sometimes, Your Highness.” He placed a hand on the small of Quentin’s back, guiding him towards the door. “Now, I believe there is a feast soon to commence, and as the guests of honor I’m sure we will be required to attend.”

Quentin laughed, letting himself be steered. “I’m sure you’re right.”

“I always am, Q. I always am.”

Eliot followed his prince out into the corridor, away from the silence and warmth of his bedroom where they had been so dangerously, deliciously alone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! If you feel moved to do so please leave a comment letting me know what you think. 
> 
> I'm queliotpasta on tumblr if you ever want to read out there!


	3. A Cup at his Lips

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the great reception to the last two chapters. I'm so excited to be sharing this chapter with all of you! Please keep in mind that this fic is rated Explicit. 
> 
> This chapter was made especially glittery and hedonist by my beta, mtothdestiel, so thank you as always to her.

“Q?”

“Hm?”

“You’re letting ink drip all over that map.”

Quentin jerked out of his daydream, spraying ink from his quill at least a foot in front of him. Alice laughed beside him, only a bit mean. Quentin found himself far more able to enjoy Alice’s sharp sense of humor since she had become his friend rather than his betrothed.

He rolled his eyes.

“Go ahead and laugh,” Quentin declared, setting the quill down on its rest, his hands covered in ink. “I shall remember your loyalties when this trial is over.”

Alice stood, linking her hands in a complex gesture in front of her body. “Oh, don’t be so dramatic.”

Alice flicked her thumbs and the ink disappeared from Quentin’s hands and the surface of the map they had been examining. Eliot clapped one hand with the flat side of his knife from where he sat at the other end of the table polishing his formidable collection. 

“You’re so good at spells like that, dear Alice.”

Alice responded with a delicately raised eyebrow. “I hope you don’t mean that I should only do cleaning spells, Lord Waugh.”

“I would  _ never–  _ Q, would I ever?”

Quentin half-smiled at the sound of their banter, but his focus was dedicated to the map in front of him. 

Eliot stood beside him in a moment, following his sight line. “What has drawn your attention so keenly?”

Quentin bit the inside of his cheek, thinking. “This bit of land here has been having trouble with its crop. The plants grow, but then rot as soon as they are harvested.”

“Hmm.” Eliot leaned over the table to take a closer look, putting himself even closer to Quentin. His hip brushed Quentin’s side. He smelled like the spiced tobacco he favored so much. Quentin was made too keenly aware of his friend and protector’s height in comparison to himself. How his body gave off warmth, even sheathed in deep plum velvet that clung to the breadth of his shoulders— 

“A disruption in the well-spring?” Eliot guessed.

Quentin cleared his throat, walking to the other side of the table. Where he could  _ breathe.  _

“Perhaps. The lord of that land is Martin Chatwin. I can’t speak to his character, given he’s so rarely at court.”

“Which is strange in and of itself,” Eliot mused.

“Not to mention he’s an  _ insanely  _ powerful magician, Q,” Alice said. 

Quentin bit his lip. “I know. Which is why we can’t afford to jump to conclusions without more information.”

With a swish of her robes, Alice strode over to a large leather bound tome that sat open on the table.

“There’s nothing in the history books that recounts this happening before,” she said. “I’ll consult with the sages, but I don’t think they will have anything useful to say.”

“It’s a start.”

“Should I send soldiers with rations to keep them fed for the time being?” Eliot asked.

“Yes, I’ll help you oversee that. And a summons for Chatwin. It’s his land, and we may yet find him an ally, if he is so powerful as Alice’s records say.”

The door to the library opened, and Margo strode inside, dressed for a party. Her scarlet gown licked the floor like a live flame, harlequin gold and burgundy sleeves trailing elegantly behind her. Her waist length hair hung loose as befitted an unmarried woman, kept back from her face with a headpiece studded with long slender spikes made of gold and silver, as though she gave off the rays of the sun. 

“I’m here for my magician,” she announced, going up on the toes of her beaded slippers to peck a kiss to Eliot’s cheek. 

“That’s so kind of you, Bambi–”

“Not you.” She patted the side of his face, smiling patronizingly, before pointing to Alice with a glossy, polished nail. “Her.”

Alice smiled down at her lap, turning red but looking pleased. 

“Do you mind?” She asked Quentin. 

Quentin shook his head, smiling. “Of course not. We’re done here, anyway.”

Margo led Alice away by the hand, waggling her fingers to Eliot and Quentin. 

“See you at the banquet later!”

She made Alice laugh, one hand resting on her waist, drawing attention to where her billowing magician’s robes disguised her figure. Strangely, Quentin felt no jealousy, watching Alice receive the attention and affection she deserved. 

“Huh,” Eliot said, watching them leave. “They seem happy. And uninterested in keeping their affair a secret.”

Quentin shrugged, rolling up the map and placing it back in its protective case. “They believe they’ve been easing me into the idea for some time,” he agreed. “Which is kind, but unnecessary. Alice and my betrothal has been over for years, and Margo is a respected member of court. Their pairing only strengthens us.”

“I know.” Eliot watched him curiously. “But how do you feel about it?”

Quentin sighed. “Honestly? Relieved. Alice is happy, and even though we broke each other’s hearts she still agreed to be my court magician. Fillory needs her, and she cannot live a hermit’s life here. I wouldn’t expect her to.”

Eliot sat down again, folding his hands. “I only barely remember a time when you were together.”

“Our engagement had already been marked for death by the time you arrived.” Quentin took his own seat, turning his attention to the stacks of correspondence in front of him. “There was once great affection between us, and still is. It’s merely taken on a form better suited to our desires in life.”

Eliot nodded, and the conversation fell away for a few moments. Eliot spun one of his small knives between his fingers, idly watching Quentin work. 

“Quiet week,” he said conversationally. 

“Almost too quiet,” Quentin agreed. 

Once news of Eliot’s victory over the fool prince Sindar spread, things began to calm down. Quentin spent enough normal days that he even ventured outside the castle a bit, walking or riding through the streets to see his people, much to Eliot’s annoyance. He always accompanied him, though nothing happened except for the odd insult thrown in Quentin’s direction by peasants who wanted a chance to take a shot at their future king while they could. 

“No, Eliot–”

“It would be quick, Q–”

“I forbid you to draw your sword because someone shouted ‘the prince smells.’”

“... Fine.”

Eliot slept on a pallet next to Quentin’s bed, still acted as his very lethal shadow wherever he went. He had thought it would be tiring– but it was anything but. 

“What are you reading?” Eliot asked now.

“Letters,” Quentin said, his quill hovering. 

“Diplomacy?”

Quentin’s mouth went a bit dry, for reasons he wasn’t certain of. 

“No, uh— but yes, in a way.” He set his quill down. “It’s mostly marriage proposals.”

Eliot blinked, his expression unreadable. 

“Ah.”  He set one knife down and picked up another, tested its weight between his fingers. “Anything interesting?”

Quentin shook his head quickly, heating up under his collar. “No, I wouldn’t feel right even considering— and under the circumstances— in any case, I’m not ready for that sort of thing yet.”

Eliot nodded. There was another pause. Quentin picked up his quill again, finishing the letter and setting it aside. With its bronze crown awaiting any monarch, Fillory was not so fixated as some on the notion of a blood dynasty. Still, that did little to stop the offers—the wheedling invitations to attend a debut or join a potential father-in-law for a luxurious hunting trip. A royal marriage promised a significant position at court, though it offered little in the way of foreign alliances, given the insecurity of its heirs. That at least was not a duty Quentin would be asked to perform.

“It wouldn’t be outlandish, you know.” Eliot kept his eyes carefully averted while he spoke. “For you to seek a partner, what with your coronation approaching.”

Quentin shook his head. “I wish you wouldn’t speak of it like that.”

“Like what?”

“As if it were a sure thing. Eliot, I could die tomorrow. In the next moment, never has my fate been so unsure, and you think I should ensnare a maiden in marriage? Or—”

_ Or a man,  _ Quentin wished to say, though he kept the words tucked in his throat. That was too dear a wish to speak aloud, though it would be well within his rights to take a spouse of any gender he chose.

Eliot’s gaze flicked up, his eyes hard, resolute. 

“Have I not kept you safe thus far? You think I would allow such a thing to happen?” He asked, and Quentin blinked before realizing Eliot referred to the threat of his assassination. “Your betrothal to Alice didn’t work, but that doesn’t mean that you must be alone forever.”

“I didn’t say that– and that has nothing to do–”

Quentin stopped, a frustrated sigh escaping his lips. Eliot knew just how to push him. Quentin hadn’t slept well that past night, and was just irritable enough to say:

“What about you?” 

Eliot furrowed his brow. “What about me?”

“You are as free as Alice, or anyone else in my service,” Quentin said, crossing his arms. “You could marry, or take a lover. I would not keep you from the pleasures of life, just because you are my protector.”

For a moment, Eliot looked angry. Quentin wondered if this would be the moment, when the constancy of their interactions would come to a head. Neither of them had been truly alone in weeks, and perhaps now Eliot would show his true feelings towards him. How annoying he must find Quentin, how needy he could be. How he deprived him of the true life any man should be free to pursue. But the moment passed, and Eliot raised his eyebrows, mirroring Quentin and crossing his arms.

“I could,” Eliot said. “But I don’t think I will.”

Quentin sighed. “The afternoon grows short. We should ready ourselves for the banquet.” 

Eliot agreed, and there was no more talk of betrothals or lovers. Back in his chambers, Quentin was helped by his attendants to dress under Eliot’s ever-watchful eye. It was an evening for royal finery, Quentin’s tunic a navy blue as deep as ink and across his chest a lushly embroidered silver stag. It was the crest of the Coldwater house, every contour of the embellishment beaded with expensive seed pearls. Those same pearls crusted thickly over the stag’s antlers, glowing under the evening light as they traced past Quentin’s shoulders and framed his collar. He acquiesced to a few rings, but left his hair hanging long. He dared a glance at Eliot when he said this, but found his guardian’s back turned, his attention on the security of the room. 

Quentin tried to swallow against the bitterness on his tongue. That was as it should be, after all. Eliot was ever dedicated to his duty.

So adorned, Quentin had ample time to sit idle in Eliot’s quarters while his friend readied himself for the evening's revels. The process involved a great deal more time than Quentin’s own preparations as he was forced to wait and watch—or rather, pointedly try to  _ not _ watch—the delicate process of Eliot lining his eyes with black kohl, smudging metallic blue at the corners. After, he dampened his fingers with some sweet smelling serum and twisted them though his curls one by one until they shone, wild as the churning sea and dark as a raven’s wing against his pale brow. 

_ He could take a lover, but he won’t _ . Eliot’s words from earlier rose unbidden to Quentin’s mind as Eliot spoke a quick enchantment to secure his cosmetics in place. What did it mean? What was Quentin free to ask of him?

Uncertainty roiled in his gut, and for the first time, he averted his eyes as Eliot pulled his tunic over his head. Eliot was deadly, and lovely, and Quentin desired him. It was wrong to take advantage when Eliot thought his gaze was only that of a friend, or his future sovereign. 

“Q?” Quentin’s gaze snapped up, and Eliot stood dressed before him, absinthe green silk clinging to his long limbs. “Are you well?”

Quentin cleared his throat and stood, allowing himself only a glimpse of the dense embroidery that twined up Eliot’s sleeves, a paradise of ivy and white hawthorn blossoms. Instead, he focused on the sword already buckled to Eliot’s waist. 

“Yes,” he said, though he could hear the sour note to his own voice. “I’m sorry, I’m only feeling some trepidation, because of the danger of the crowd after all the luck we’ve had.”

Eliot offered him a reassuring squeeze to his shoulder, not knowing how the touch only heightened Quentin’s doubts. 

“Fear not,” he promised. “You shall be under my watchful eye all night.” 

Quentin did his best to offer his friend a smile. “Of course.”

As they neared the banquet hall Quentin could feel any optimism he had held from two weeks with no violence slowly disappearing. If it were up to him, he would have skipped the traditional feast and revelry that marked the half-way point of his month of trial, but with the assassination attempt and Prince Sindar’s challenge thwarted his people deserved an evening of celebration, even if there wasn’t much to celebrate. The banquet wasn’t for him, he kept reminding himself. 

“His Royal Highness, our Bronze Prince, Quentin Coldwater.”

The herald announced his arrival and then Quentin was swept into the feast already in progress, clasping hands and receiving bows and compliments. 

“You have handled this trial with such grace, Your Highness—”

“—Your father would be so proud to see—”

“We know you will be a monarch that will be remembered for all times—”

Everyone was kind, but their compliments unnerved Quentin. His trial was only half-complete, and yet these courtiers were speaking as if this were his coronation feast. He kept looking behind him, making sure Eliot was there. He was, for a time, vigilant with his hand on his sword, but then even he was swallowed by the crowd.

Quentin had just finished a very boring conversation with a visitor from the Wandering Desert when he felt a hand in his. Calloused, with long fingers, pulling him towards a familiar body. 

“Q.” It was Eliot. He was flushed, and smiling. “Dance with me?”

Quentin’s heart thudded in his chest. His mouth was dry. He nodded. 

Eliot led him out to the dance floor, never letting go of his hand. The drums beat a slow time, a mournful flute starting the melody for a stately pavane. They stepped in time with the rest of the procession, each noble in the line a different shade of shimmering jewel-like color. 

Quentin kept his gaze glued to the gown of the lady in front of him, how the saffron velvet swayed with each step. The pavane was a dance meant to display oneself, to demonstrate a regal air, but Quentin felt like anything but a king as his hand sweated against Eliot’s palm. The lady in front of him glanced up at her partner, flirtation in her eyes—perhaps even love. The dance was slow enough to hold eye contact, to share secrets with nothing more than a gaze, yet Quentin dared not look at Eliot. 

The procession stopped and Eliot took a knee, still holding Quentin’s hand as he walked a small circle around him. He finally met his eyes then, and found all of Eliot’s shining gaze on him. Traitorous hope leapt in Quentin’s heart. Eliot had asked him to dance. He held his hand. He looked at him as though— 

The dance went on, and Eliot stood. Quentin dropped to his knee, waiting for Eliot to mirror the circle he’d walked. 

But Eliot was frozen at the sight of Quentin knelt before him. 

“Eliot?”

Eliot’s lips parted, a strange look on his face. 

“I’m sorry– I have to–” Eliot backed up, dropping Quentin’s hand as if it burned him. “I’m sorry, Your Highness.”

Quentin was left there, down on one knee, as Eliot disappeared into the crowd. The dance continued around him, the swirling procession of legs and skirts as chaotic as his thoughts.

What had he done wrong?

“You don’t look like you’re having fun  _ at all,”  _ Margo said, when Quentin found her near a table laden with food a few moments later. Quentin was uncertain if she hadn’t noticed Eliot’s behavior on the dance floor, or if she was commenting on it. 

“I wasn’t aware that parties were for having fun,” Quentin said. 

Margo pursed her lips and plucked a goblet from a servant's tray, filled to the brim with deep red wine. “Here, drink up now.”

For the last fortnight Quentin had abstained from drink. But tonight– 

_ It wouldn’t be outlandish, you know, for you to seek a partner. _

Perhaps Eliot had been trying to tell him something kindly, and in his selfishness Quentin had refused to listen. But then why dance with him? 

He downed the sweet wine in one gulp, Margo’s gleeful laugh a shriek in his ear. Out of the corner of his eye, Quentin spotted Eliot, talking and laughing, his gaze off of Quentin for the first time in two weeks. As if he hadn’t just abandoned Quentin on the dance floor.

“Our friend looks beautiful tonight, does he not?” Margo whispered conspiratorially. 

Quentin swallowed. In his vivid green Eliot was like the promise of a hot and verdant summer day at the tail end of the winter’s chill. In the bonfire light of the hall his curls were even more lustrous, his fair complexion luminous. Quentin had failed to notice in their quarters that Eliot had traded his usual leggings for black silk hose, footed so as to make his long legs one seamless shimmering line all the way to the floor. 

But more than that, Eliot glowed with power. He remained in his beauty a coiled thing of strength and magic. At his waist, his belt glittered with beading and his sword was hidden in a scabbard pressed and painted with wildflowers, yet Quentin harbored no doubt that the blade was sharp and ready. There must be at least one knife secreted against his ribs, or tucked up his draping sleeves. His quick and clever fingers were always ready to cast.

Lovely, Quentin thought again. Lovely and deadly.

But what did Quentin expect? To keep all of Eliot to himself for all of time?

“Eliot always looks beautiful.” It was not as if Quentin had the power to disagree. “Though his manner as a dance partner leaves something to be desired tonight.”

Margo hummed her commiseration, revealing that she had indeed seen Eliot’s odd retreat. “Forgive his strange manner in a strange time, Q. He’s under a great deal of strain, as you both are. But tonight there’s no threat, and you should take the opportunity to be at ease while it lasts.”

Eliot spoke with a young nobleman Quentin knew from his school days. He had just inherited a modest but profitable estate, and Quentin struggled to remember his name, but he was tall and slender with sleek blond hair that reached his shoulders, a light foil to Eliot’s darkness. He said something, reaching out to brush his hand against Eliot’s arm and Eliot laughed, his eyes sparkling. He was pleased. They made quite a lovely pair. 

An attendant came by with more wine, and Quentin took another glass. It was dry and tasted of nothing as it burned down Quentin's throat. Margo brought him over to some maiden, her hair a wreath of honey-colored curls. Quentin bowed and took her to dance, smiling—acting the prince, always—but in his heart he burned, anguish in his very blood. 

He spotted Eliot, dancing with that slender young noble, their hands joined between them. Quentin tried to concentrate on the dance, a lively galliard that had never been his forte, but he was distracted by what sounded like Eliot’s laugh from across the room. 

The dance ended, and Quentin bowed to his partner and set off in search of more wine. 

The evening became hazy after that. Margo kept him well-supplied with libations, and with the release of his full faculties the hand that had squeezed Quentin’s heart loosened. He laughed easily, danced with any maiden that was brought to him—and a few young men—and not once did he speak about Eliot.

He didn’t need him. Eliot wanted his duty, his title as protector of the prince. How could Quentin ever tell him how he loved him when Eliot would do anything Quentin asked? Eliot would smile and flirt tonight with young men but would never let himself be happy unless Quentin set him free. 

Selfishly, Quentin knew he never would.

And oh, how Quentin loved him. Loved his strength, his beauty, the way he laughed and the way he walked— _ gods _ , the way he dueled, quick as lightning and harsh as a hurricane. Loved how he protected him and challenged him to be the monarch Quentin had never believed he could be. And in the darkest part of him, Quentin knew his most secret reason for loving Eliot Waugh:

Eliot had killed for him, and would again. The sharp edge of his blade was as sweet to him as any troubadour’s poetry; the blood spilled in Quentin’s name headier than a cup shared between lovers.

“Q, are you alright?”

He felt Alice’s soft hand on his face sometime later, his vision going in and out– his mind a fog of dreams and reality. She looked down on him from above. Clearly, he had found a seat at some point in the festivities.

“No,” he slurred. 

“Let me find Eliot– just wait here–”

Alice disappeared, but Quentin had no intention of waiting for Eliot.  _ Eliot–  _ he would not pull Eliot from whatever amusement he had entangled himself in. No doubt he was in better company than a drunken, lovesick Quentin. He stood, stumbling away so that he would not be there when Alice returned. 

He couldn’t dance, but he could certainly drink more, until sweet oblivion took him.

So when a servant appeared at his elbow, offering a goblet filled with strangely dark wine—

“Here, Your Highness, you’ll surely be delighted by this.”

– he took it.

The party swirled around him. Laughing, the smell of rich food, the roar of the drum beating in his ears as the dancing became wilder as the banquet guests took more to drink. Quentin lifted the golden cup to drink, the action sluggish and clumsy. The wine smelled like a forest fire Quentin had witnessed as a young boy. The goblet was so full that in his haste some wine spilled past the rim and down his hand, leaving dark trails into the sleeve of his tunic. 

“Your Highness, if you would allow me—” 

In the space between one heartbeat and the next Eliot was there, warm at Quentin’s side and intercepting the goblet with a light touch just before the liquid met his lips. 

It was only when he looked up and saw the tightness of Eliot’s jaw— the flash of anger in his eye—that Quentin realized something was amiss. 

His vision swam as Eliot caught the servant who had pushed the strange drink into Quentin’s hand by the scruff of his neck, holding the goblet in his other hand. On his middle finger, his normally white ring flared an angry red. 

“Tell me who ordered this,” Eliot snarled in the young servant’s ear. The man whimpered, and Eliot shook him by the collar. “I can find your master, or I can pour it down your throat right now. What is your choice?”

Quentin became aware of a pain in his arm, and realized that his skin was burning hot where the wine had soaked the cuff of his tunic. Margo was beside him next, laying a hand on Quentin’s shoulder and trying to speak to him. 

“Q– Q! Look at me!”

The servant, not a member of the staff Quentin recognized, he realized, raised a shaking hand and pointed to a dark corner of the room where a figure stood encased in shadow. Eliot dropped him in a heap of limbs and strode across the room, words of power falling from his lips and then– 

Quentin was conscious of Margo’s hands on him, helping him to the ground, his skin burning like fire where the poison had touched him as he fell. Pain laced through him and he batted Margo’s hands away. 

“No, no, Eliot–”

The crowds parted, for him or for Eliot, he couldn’t say for sure, but then all he knew were screams as the pain descended upon him, and the clang of a goblet hitting the ground. 

~

When Quentin woke, he was in his bed, two pillows under his head. Someone had removed his boots, and drawn his hair away from his face in a knot at the base of his neck. A single candle burned on the table next to his bed, keeping the room dim and calm. 

Then he sat up, and a headache shot through him like a knife. He grimaced, closing his eyes and lying back on the pillows. 

“Don’t sit up yet.” The voice belonged to Margo, her small hands smoothing the blankets around him. “The healer said you might not tolerate light right now.”

“Yes, I just gathered that,” Quentin groaned, putting a hand over his eyes to block out the light. “What happened?”

“You were poisoned,” Margo said. 

Quentin opened his eyes, slowly this time. Margo still wore her banquet dress, but had removed her headpiece. More than that, her mouth was a tight line, her eyes dark. She looked exhausted. 

“Or rather, there was an attempted poisoning,” she continued. “It only got on your hand, but it was magicked. It burned enough to make you pass out. The amount of wine you drank beforehand might not have helped either.”

He looked down at his hand, the skin smooth and unblemished now, but he remembered how it had flared red and burned all the way down to the bone. 

Quentin sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“Who was it? A servant gave me the wine but it couldn’t have been him.”

“It was Martin Chatwin,” Margo said, “That– beast. Turns out he had been siphoning magic out of his own land to make the poison, to get enough power to take over the kingdom–” She stopped, her voice thick and worried. “I’m so sorry, Q.”

“It’s alright, Margo.”

“No, I would have never gotten you drunk if I thought it would put you in danger, I swear–the way you were screaming, I thought I had killed you–”

He put a hand over hers, stroking his thumb over her knuckles. “Don’t say that. Believe me, I know who my friends are, and my indiscretions were entirely my own.”

Margo nodded, a tremble in her lip. Quentin had never seen Margo cry before.

“It was a horrible scene.”

There was another flash of memory. Eliot, taking the goblet from his hand, a horrible choking sound that hadn’t come from him– 

“What happened to Chatwin?” Quentin asked, already knowing the answer in his heart. 

Margo blinked, looking to the side. “Eliot did. He bound him before he could cast….and got the poison down his throat. He died screaming.”

Quentin swallowed the lump forming in his throat. So that had been the cause of all that noise. 

“Where’s Eliot now?”

“Right here.”

Eliot came through the door, still wearing his sword and looking exhausted. 

“I better go, check on Alice–” Margo mumbled, standing. “I’m sorry, again, Q–”

She left after another reassurance from Quentin, leaving them alone. Quentin tried to sit up again, hissing when another wave of pain hit him. He flopped back as Eliot took Margo’s seat at his bedside.

Eliot’s hands were soft on his arm. 

“Is it your hand?”

Quentin shook his head. “No, my head, I’m embarrassed to say.”

Eliot crossed his hands in front of Quentin’s face, his index fingers pressed to his thumbs, and then slowly drew one back as if pulling thread through the eye of a needle. Almost instantly, Quentin’s headache and the sloshing feeling in his stomach lifted, leaving only exhaustion behind. 

He exhaled, the pain gone. “Thank you, El.”

“Of course. But it was the healers who got the poison out. I just happen to know how to get rid of a hangover.”

Quentin laughed, finally able to sit up. Eliot helped him with a hand on his back. 

“So…” Quentin started, the events of the night returning to him one at a time. “Is that the third time now?”

Eliot furrowed his brow. “What do you mean?”

“The third time you have saved me from death. Margo says you killed Martin Chatwin, but I never should have taken that cup. I have been… foolish and weak.”

“Martin Chatwin was starving his own people for the pleasure of it, and almost became king of Fillory,” Eliot said impatiently. “This is why I’m here, Quentin.”

“I know that,” Quentin said. He swung his legs over the opposite side of his bed, putting his back to him. “Ember knows I know that. But how many times must you put yourself in harm’s way because of my foolishness?”

“As many times as it takes.”

Quentin bit his lip. “What a thankless task you have taken on.”

“It can be, but that doesn't mean it isn’t my duty.”

Where there had been only exhaustion, now anger licked through Quentin’s belly. 

“Then I shall ask you why–” He gripped the side of the bed. “Why stay here at all if protecting me is such a burden? What sum of money could my father have gifted to you that would make this worth it? Is an unlanded title enough for you to take a cup of poison from my hands, one that could have burned your skin away, when I was too foolish and drunk to see it with my own two eyes?”

“It’s not your fault you were born a prince in such a harsh land–”

Quentin laughed darkly. “A prince. Yes, I remember.”

“Q, I don’t–”

Quentin stood. “Yes, say that you don’t understand, that  _ of course  _ you will protect me, because it is your duty, your obligation–” Quentin threw his hands up. “I’ll ask a different question then.”

He stopped, waiting for Eliot to stand, to fight back. He didn’t. Only waited for Quentin to continue. 

“Why did you not finish your dance with me?”

Eliot frowned. “It wasn’t proper for the prince to kneel before me.”

“It’s a pavane, Eliot, everyone kneels.”

Eliot stood, pacing at the edge of the bed. “I know. It wasn’t that– it was distracting, and not a good idea if I was to protect you while among the crowds.”

“So you will spend your whole life denying yourself?”

“That’s not–” Eliot ran a hand through his hair. “I– I will deny myself if it means that you are safe.”

Quentin shook his head. “Eliot, we are only just men. ”

“I am just a man, Quentin. You are a prince. Royalty.” Eliot shook his head. “In this, we must disagree.” 

“Again, you remind me of my title,” Quentin spat. “I watched you, flirting and laughing among the handsome young nobles, and I thought wicked, jealous thoughts. Hardly behavior befitting Fillory’s monarch. I wanted you by my side, and yet you denied me. How is that any way to treat a prince?”

“I’m always by your side,” Eliot said quietly. So evenly. “I watched you all night. Protected you from afar even if you did not see it.”

“But that isn’t fair, is it?” Quentin kept going, his voice hollow. “You are in my service, but I do not own you, cannot keep you with me at all times, no matter how great a threat there is to my life.”

“My duty–”

“Speak not of your duty to me, I wish to hear the truth.” Quentin stood before him, so that they were face to face. “Why is it that you remain here? Why do you protect me beyond the requirements of your station? Why do you–” He swallowed, Eliot’s eyes flashed. “Why do you  _ look  _ upon me with such tenderness and then shy away from me at every turn?”

In a fit of boldness, Quentin clasped a hand to the back of Eliot’s neck, pressing their brows together. He closed his eyes, breathing raggedly. 

“How many times must you save me with no thought to– no thought to how I should repay you? No thought to how I might feel– watching you dangle yourself before death for my sake?”

“It is my true calling, Your Highness. My privilege,” Eliot said, for once his voice shaken beyond its usual pragmatic lilt, for once showing that he was affected, “You are my sovereign. My purpose. You are–”

He stopped, reaching a hand forward to cup Quentin’s face. His white ring was unnaturally warm against Quentin’s cheek. 

“What?” Quentin breathed, turning so slightly, enough to brush his lips against the palm of Eliot’s hand. 

Eliot squeezed his eyes shut, his other hand reaching out to fist itself in Quentin’s tunic. In one moment, they were locked this way, un-moving, time frozen, and then in the next, Quentin found himself flat on his back, Eliot hovering above him on the bed. His eyes were open– and Quentin had thought he knew what it was to burn when he felt the poison course through him, but it was nothing,  _ nothing  _ at all, compared to this.

“You’re  _ mine _ .”

Quentin closed his eyes as Eliot’s voice broke over those precious syllables, his weight on top of him aching bliss. It loosened Quentin’s tongue enough to plead:

“Then why don’t you  _ have me.” _

With a pained groan, Eliot clutched Quentin’s face in his hands and kissed him. Quentin gasped, and clung to him at once, unwilling to risk even for a moment that Eliot might change his mind and pull away, depriving Quentin of the touch he’d hungered for for so long. 

“Mine,” Eliot repeated when they parted for a shuddering breath.

_ “Yes,”  _ Quentin said against his lips. “I’m yours–”

Eliot moaned and moved from his lips to lick along Quentin’s jaw, one hand spanning Quentin’s rib cage. The full line of his body pressed against him, so tall, so strong, keeping Quentin safe, making him  _ feel  _ safe.

“Your Highness,” Eliot whispered against his throat, “My prince–”

Usually, Quentin bristled when Eliot regarded him so formally, but this was different. There was heat as well as deference behind the title.

“Eliot,” Quentin begged, his voice broken to his own ears. “Touch me—“

He took Eliot’s hand and drew it under his tunic, until he could press it to his groin.

“Yes,” Eliot gasped, “Anything.”

Quentin pressed his hips up into the touch. 

Eliot was so beautiful, his hair like silk under Quentin’s fingers. He had looked so splendid under the torchlight that evening, talking and socializing among the nobles as if he had been born to it, always,  _ always  _ keeping with his eyes on Quentin. He had saved Quentin, yet again, had killed a man with his hands and his sword and now Quentin could give of himself, could  _ reward  _ his champion. 

Could love him. 

Quentin had fasted for too long in sight of this feast. Hunger burned through him, Eliot’s words an echo in his mind.  _ You’re mine, you’re mine–  _ and he was, Quentin was  _ his–  _

Eliot fumbled with the lacings of Quentin’s trousers, pawing blindly at him until they were loose enough to push them down around his hips. Quentin shivered as Eliot’s long fingers brushed over his abdomen, giving his cock one firm pull. Quentin nearly arched off the bed.

“Yes, Eliot  _ yes– “ _

Quentin whimpered as Eliot’s touch disappeared, opening his eyes long enough to see Eliot lick a long stripe over his own hand, bringing a new slickness to his touch when he took Quentin in hand once more, stroking him slow and hard. 

Surely this must be a dream, a hallucination brought about by the poison– perhaps Quentin was dead, and this was paradise.

But no, that couldn’t be right. Eliot had saved him. And now he touched him.

“Make me come, Eliot—” he babbled, desperate, “— _ touch  _ me—“

“Yes, my prince, for you— _ anything—“ _

Quentin had never felt so possessed, and so powerful all at once. 

_ “Kiss me.” _

Eliot gave him his mouth, his tongue, quick pulls of his hand over his cock. His other hand kept his balance above Quentin’s head, caging him in. Quentin was close already, the release of the moment too great to resist.

“Come for me,” Eliot said against his lips. “I want to feel it.”

As if obeying an order, the pressure that had built inside of him released. He groaned, arching off the bed. Eliot stroked him through it,  _ kissed _ him through it, until Quentin was gasping and squirming away from Eliot’s hand. 

“My prince,” Eliot breathed, brushing his nose reverently over the curve of Quentin’s cheek. “My beautiful prince…”

Quentin sat up, still hungry, kissing Eliot deeply and tasting the moans from his lips, feeling the rumble of them in his throat. He reached for the belt around Eliot’s lovely slim waist, running a hand down to his abdomen, and then down his trousers to touch Eliot in return. He groaned as Quentin pressed a hand over the cloth covering him. He was hard, and Quentin pawed greedily at the shape of him.

“Eliot– I want to use my mouth on you–”

“Q–”

Quentin pressed again, feeling the length of him, kissing Eliot deeply when he gasped his pleasure. Quentin kept his mouth occupied while his hands set out to undo the laces of Eliot’s trousers.

Then...something shifted. 

Eliot stilled, inhaling deeply as if in pain. With a frustrated sound akin to a sob, he took Quentin’s hands between his own, squeezing his eyes shut and pressing a kiss to his knuckles. 

“What’s wrong?” Quentin asked, still breathless, still dizzy from his own pleasure.

Eliot shook his head, avoiding his eyes. “I wouldn’t expect, Your Highness, I would never ask– for you to debase yourself in such a way– “

Quentin pulled his hands from his, bracing them instead on Eliot’s neck and forcing him to look him in the eye. 

“What nonsense do you speak?” 

Eliot turned away once more. Were his eyes wet?

“Eliot,  _ look _ at me.”

A rare command. It burned in Quentin’s throat before he even said it.

Eliot lifted his gaze. Gone was the warmth that had bathed him so thoroughly moments ago. Quentin didn’t recognize the look at first, so foreign was it upon Eliot’s handsome features. 

It was fear. 

A knock sounded at the door. 

“Not now,” Quentin called, letting his hands fall to Eliot’s chest, keeping him there. 

“Sir,” Faulk called through the door, “We’ve found the servant who served you the poison, we need orders, sir.”

Eliot tugged free of Quentin’s hold, and then was already off the bed, adjusting his clothing and avoiding Quentin’s eye like the plague. 

“I will speak with him,” he said, his tone hollow and business-like as he rebelted his sword into place. “We can’t punish him, but we can find out if there were any others involved in this plot.”

Quentin stood, fastening his own clothes. Everything was happening so fast.

“Eliot–we should–”

“No,” Eliot said firmly, finally turning to face him. “I mean–” he paused, swallowing. “—this is important. I will speak with the servant first, to make sure he’s been disarmed. Then you can decide what to do with him. Have– have Faulk and the guard escort you there. Here–”

Suddenly, he reached out, and Quentin thought wildy that he would kiss him again, but instead Eliot just used his thumb to wipe something away from Quentin’s cheek. 

“A bit of kohl,” Eliot said quietly. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t go, this can wait.”

Eliot was already at the door. “I assure you it can’t.”

And then he was gone, leaving Quentin in his cold and empty chambers. 

Utterly alone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for reading!


	4. The Ring on his Finger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so excited to share this next chapter with you! I hope this is a needed dose of escapism for everyone.

Force of habit woke Eliot at dawn. The sun had barely crested over the horizon, the air chilled from its absence, but already he felt wide awake. He blinked the sleep from his eyes and rolled to his feet, tucking the pallet he slept on under Quentin’s bed. 

The prince still slept soundly, resting on his side. They had gone to their respective beds in silence late the night before after quietly dealing with the traitorous servant. He hadn’t been an agent of Martin Chatwin, only a poor local that had fallen under the evil lord’s spell. Quentin had made the hard choice to have the man escorted from Whitespire, banished for life, and only then had he gone to bed without giving Eliot a second look. 

It had been an exhausting evening for everyone.

Eliot watched him now. His chest rose and fell to the rhythm of his breathing. 

Assured that no curse had befallen Quentin while Eliot slept, he turned from the prince and crossed through the door to his adjoining quarters. He dressed quickly with the door cracked, in case any assassins thought the early morning would be a good time to try their luck. A bit of water splashed on his face helped to clear his head, and he had his sword around his waist in a matter of minutes, ready for another day keeping sentry at Quentin’s side. 

He took up his post near the doorway to Quentin’s room. He would wait until Quentin woke, just until it was safe, and then he would...

His mouth dried up at the thought. 

What would he do?

He leaned against the lintel by the door as flashes of the evening previous ran through his mind. Quentin, kneeling before him in their dance. His drunkenness, the hurt in his eyes after Eliot left him on the floor. The way the party had descended then, a roiling, drunken revelry in which any enemy might try their hand at killing a monarch. The feeling of Martin Chatwin struggling in his grip as he poured the poison down his throat– 

How foolish Eliot had been. 

In his own selfishness, he had sought to distance himself from Quentin, so as not to hover over him like a shadow made sentient. It was inappropriate for him to want to possess the prince, claim him as his own for all to see– it went beyond the scope of his duties and he knew that others would begin to notice. 

But oh, Eliot’s weakness did not end there. 

_ You’re mine. _

Eliot tensed at the memory of his own words, a shameful echo in his mind. 

_ Touch me, Eliot.  _

Quentin turned in the bed in front of him, shoving his arm underneath a pillow. Eliot went warm under the collar thinking of how Quentin had felt beneath him. He’d arched his body into every touch Eliot granted him, as if he’d been wanting it for years; thinking of it for so long– 

Eliot squeezed his eyes shut, shame coursing through his veins. He should feel victorious, as he would after any successful fight. He had saved Quentin thrice from death and then again from making a terrible mistake. He had touched him, but he had not allowed them to continue into the territory of regrets. 

His prince had desired him, and he had been strong enough to deny him. 

It had been years since Eliot had been touched by another. There had been a time when he was free with his body, chasing pleasure to numb the pain of living with the man he had become. Meaningless affairs, loveless and sustained only through passion, Eliot hardly remembered the many faces of the men who had once shared his bed.

But then he had met Quentin. 

He had knelt before him; sworn his fealty to him and pledged his life to his safety. There had been no others since that moment. He had renounced any notion of his own pleasure, repenting for the sins of his past with love, given pure and chaste from afar. 

He rested his hand on the pommel of his sword. Quentin had been so beautiful in his desire–but he had not fallen. He should feel proud, or at the very least relieved, for his resistance. Instead, he felt nothing but grief for the love he knew now he would never have,  _ could  _ never possess. A pale echo, lonely and hollow. 

He had been better off keeping his distance entirely. 

Now he would suffer, knowing the way Quentin clung to his lover, how his passion fell from his lips as easy as water from a cliff. 

Quentin stirred in his sleep. 

“Eliot…” he whispered, sweet dreams written on his sleeping face. 

Eliot shuddered a breath, knocking quietly on the door behind him. Faulk opened it a crack. 

“There’s something I must attend to. I need you to watch the prince, until he wakes,” Eliot said, his voice low. 

“Of course, my lord.”

“If anything should happen to him–”

“Lord Waugh,” Faulk interrupted him, evidently reading the pain on Eliot’s face. “He’s like a son to me. I will keep him safe in your absence.”

Eliot nodded, and with one last look at Quentin, escaped into the hall. 

His breath ran ragged through his chest, as if he had been running. He pawed at his eyes, turning his face when he passed servants in the hall. The prince’s champion could not be seen this way, but Eliot was a haunted man. He would be haunted by the ghost of Quentin’s kiss, of his hands fumbling to free Eliot of his clothes, as if Eliot were  _ worthy.  _

Eliot had been weak. He had coveted that which did not belong to him. Quentin could never be his, and now in his weakness he had left his prince without his protection. 

He burst through the first open door to his right, his next breath retching out of him like a sob. He hid himself behind a shelf, and let the tears fall freely from his eyes. 

“Eliot?”

He looked up. Alice stood before him, a massive leatherbound book in her arms. He should have known she would be in the castle library this early. 

“I’m sorry,” Eliot said, his voice ugly and thick with tears. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“You didn’t.” She stepped closer, setting her book in its place on one of the wide shelves near where Eliot had hidden himself. “Are you alright? I don’t think I’ve seen you without Quentin since his trial began.”

“Yes, well,” Eliot swiped a betraying tear that leaked from his eye. “The trial makes fools of us all, as it would seem.”

“I see.” She looked uncomfortable, but soldiered on. “I can’t imagine how you must be feeling, after last night.”

Eliot tensed. Did the whole castle know of his indiscretion?

“What do you mean?”

Alice’s brow furrowed. “The poison? And when you killed Martin Chatwin?”

Eliot paused, and then breathed a relieved laugh. 

“Oh yes. Not my finest hour.”

“On the contrary, that man has been a nuisance to all the honest people of Fillory for years. It was good to see him face the wrath of judge and jury.”

“And executioner?” Eliot asked, raising an eyebrow.

Her answering smile was less than compassionate, and Eliot was reminded that while Alice presented a plain appearance, underneath the facade she was the most powerful and ruthless magician in Fillory. 

“Come.” She turned with a swish of her robes, shimmering subtly in the morning sun, beckoning to him over her shoulder. “Sit with me while I study. Unless you would like to stay here and cry some more.”

Eliot accepted her invitation, and while he would normally spend the morning training or guarding Quentin, he spent it instead handing Alice very specific and very large books from the tops of the shelves when she couldn’t reach. When he asked why she didn’t just use magic, she scoffed at him.

“I don’t waste magic. Or time.”

An hour passed, and Eliot knew that Quentin would be looking for him soon. He had been self-indulgent and irresponsible for long enough. 

“I should be going,” he said, rising to his feet. “Thank you for your company.”

She barely looked up from her reading. “Thank you for being born so very tall.”

He smirked and made to walk away, but she called after him. 

“I’ve been admiring your magnificent ring for some time, Lord Waugh.”

When he turned back, her cool blue eyes were on him– surveying him, measuring him. There had always been something unsettling about Alice, almost inhuman. He wondered for a moment what lengths she had gone to procure such power at such a young age. Perhaps he and Quentin’s former betrothed had more in common than he thought. 

“It carries a sensing enchantment,” she continued. “ If I’m not mistaken?”

Eliot fiddled with his white ring, just barely warm against his finger, but far from cold.

“Yes. How did you know?”

Alice shrugged. “Did you enchant it yourself?”

Eliot shook his head. “It was a gift, from the first swordsman who trained me. It’s meant to grow warm when one you love is in danger.”

Alice closed the large tome in front of her, standing from the desk to reshelve it. 

“I thought it a silly gift, at the time,” Eliot continued, feeling strangely vulnerable. “I never thought there would be such a person, after my mother passed.”

Alice hummed, her expression void of the usual sympathies when one mentioned a dead parent. 

“Well,” she said, choosing another book and holding it close to her chest. “I can’t imagine what a nuisance these last weeks have been for your poor finger.”

Eliot smiled despite himself. There was little Alice missed. 

“Lord Waugh!”

A young guard burst into the library, bowing when he saw Alice present as well. 

“What is it, Malcom?” Eliot said, his heart already dropping at what catastrophe could have struck in an hour’s absence. 

“The prince would like to see you,” Malcom said, and Eliot deflated. “He’s at breakfast now.”

Eliot exhaled. 

“Alright, I’ll be there in just a moment.”

He bid goodbye to Alice, the temporary respite her presence had provided to his nerves dissipating as he approached the dining hall. He entered slowly. Sunlight, warm and bright, streamed through the pale stained-glass windows, a cheery reminder that spring fast approached. And spring’s arrival meant the end of Quentin’s trial, and his coronation. 

At the end of the table, Quentin sat alone, eating. Well, Faulk had done his duty. Quentin still lived and breathed and breakfasted, seemingly unscathed. 

Quentin looked up when Eliot stood before him, setting his utensils down. He was dressed plainly—as plain as royalty ever dressed—his finery from the evening set aside in favor of a russet brown tunic and blue piping and hose. He didn’t smile, worry etched in every line of his face. 

“You wanted to see me, Your Highness?”

Quentin blinked. “Yes, I– I was worried when you were gone this morning.”

“I’m sorry,” Eliot said, more formal than he had even spoken to Quentin. “I had something to attend to, and I knew you would be safe with Faulk.”

“So he said.” Quentin gestured to the table. “Have you eaten?”

“I’m not hungry, Your Highness.”

Quentin sighed, a muscle in his jaw jumping. Anger. Again. When would he cease to make his prince angry?

Quentin turned to the guards flanking the door. “Leave us, please.”

They did, and Eliot felt the weight of their solitude as soon as the heavy door fell shut. 

Quentin met his gaze. “What is this?”

Eliot parted his lips, looking away. “Your Highness, I only–”

“Eliot. Enough.”

Quentin’s voice was firm. Like a prince. Like a  _ King.  _

It softened immediately. He gestured with a hand. 

“Please sit.”

Eliot did, taking the seat at Quentin’s right hand. Quentin stared down at the table, playing with the edge of his napkin. 

“I wanted to talk about last night. How we–” he swallowed, a  _ lovely  _ pink flush creeping up the collar of his tunic. “How we were. Together. And then weren't.”

Eliot’s hands shook with the need to reach across the table, to hold his prince and put his lips everywhere he turned the most pink. He fisted them in his lap instead and swallowed. 

“I wanted to apologize for that. For my...behavior.” 

Quentin looked up, meeting his eyes again. 

“Apologize?”

Eliot nodded, the words as bitter on his tongue as the previous night’s poison. “It was… inappropriate, given our situation, and after such an evening. I should have been focused on your protection. It’s not as if the trial ended with Chatwin’s death. There might have been more threats.”

“I,” Quentin paused, biting his lip. “I suppose I can understand that but… are you saying that you regret it?”

Eliot found his most pragmatic voice, forcing it past his lips with all his strength. 

“Yes. I was...overwrought, with the passions of the night, and I always wish to do all I can for you happiness, Your Highness–”

Quentin’s eyes widened. “So you believe… that I commanded you to touch me? As an order from your sovereign?”

Eliot shook his head, the pain in Quentin’s eyes a knife in his own heart. 

“No– you were perfect,  _ are  _ perfect. The flaw lies with me. You were upset, and I shouldn’t have acted in such a way.”

Quentin’s face was hard, the openness that had been there the night before gone. 

“You called me yours.”

Eliot flinched, his own words a blow. “I was wrong to do it. You belong to a kingdom, not to any one man.”

Quentin’s nostrils flared. “Do you wish that it hadn’t happened?”

Eliot pursed his lips. “I do. I’m only glad we stopped when we did.”

Quentin cast his gaze back down to the table. 

“Then I suppose there’s little else we need to speak about.”

Quentin picked up his utensils and set about cutting up his breakfast once more, but made no move to eat. After a few moments, he looked back up at Eliot, hurt leaking through the coldness of his expression. 

“That will be all.”

With a pang, Eliot realized that he was being dismissed. 

He nodded, eyes burning, and rose to his feet, taking the place of the men by the door to act as guard. There was no more said between them. 

  
  


~

Quentin didn’t keep Eliot from doing his duty. 

Eliot slept in his room, followed him each day, and kept a sharp eye out for any suspicious movements in the castle. The guards reported to him, and Eliot never left Quentin’s side. 

“That’s the last one, Your Highness,” Joss said to Quentin one day after he had spent the afternoon hearing petitions from Fillorians about reforms they would like to see under his rule. It was traditional in the last week of the trial for the bronze prince to tentatively take on some of the king’s duties, in preparation to rule the kingdom should he make it out alive. “The royal tailor is waiting in the antechamber to fit you for your coronation robes.”

Quentin sighed. “I hate to tempt fate, but I suppose some plans must be made.”

“The coronation  _ is _ tomorrow, sir.”

Quentin nodded at Joss, who bowed as he strode from the throne room, and Eliot kicked away from the alcove he had been leaning against to follow. 

Quentin didn’t turn to beckon for him, didn’t smile or make a joke about the petitioner who had complained about the forty-five (she’d counted) talking cats that had taken up residence in her barn. Ever since the morning after the banquet, it was as if there were miles between them. Each time Quentin turned away from him and every time he avoided his gaze was like a lance to Eliot’s heart. 

But if it would keep Quentin safe… both in body and in his heart, then Eliot could brave even the cruelest torture. 

He kept his own gaze averted as the tailor helped Quentin divest himself of his plain day tunic to try on his lavish coronation garments. If all went well and Eliot did what King Theodore had asked of him, Quentin would be king of Fillory in less than twenty four hours. Alice would place a golden crown on his brow and he would forget. He would forget that for a moment he had wanted Eliot, had wanted to touch him and possess his heart. He would forget that Eliot wanted him in return, so much so that he could scarcely breathe. 

Perhaps they could be friends again, then, in some distant future when Quentin understood that Eliot had never been, and could never be, worthy of him. 

“What do you think?”

Quentin’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. Eliot sat up, seeing that Quentin’s gaze had settled on him. The first time in two weeks. 

“What do you mean, Your Highness?”

Quentin sighed, turning toward the gilded full-length mirror. 

“It’s only that you have a much better eye for these things that I and…” He trailed off, dipping his head and letting the false crown fall into his hands. “I feel rather foolish, in all this.”

“You don’t look foolish,” Eliot said, rising and standing behind Quentin. 

He looked… resplendent. The royal tailor had obviously noticed that the prince favored blue, and fashioned his coronation mantle in deep navy. The silk train glittered with a thousand stars picked out in silver thread—all the constellations of the heavens that would watch over Quentin’s reign. Underneath he wore an ankle length tunic in a lighter shade to complement it, the dense brocade woven into a pattern of cresting waves with the life giving rays of the sun emanating in pearls and gold from Quentin’s collar.

“No?” Quentin smoothed his hair back from his face.

“No,” Eliot breathed. “You look… like a king.”

Quentin met his gaze in the mirror, his lips parting. Eliot drank it up like a parched man in the desert. He hadn’t realized how he had thirsted these last two weeks, for even just a look. He followed Quentin’s hands as he continued to adjust his hair. 

“Perhaps I should–” Quentin experimented with pulling his hair back from his face, holding it at the base of his neck as if it were tied in a knot. 

“No–” Eliot said again, impulsively reaching a hand out to let Quentin’s hair fall. “I mean– you should wear it loose. It suits you.”

Quentin’s gaze shifted to where he and Eliot’s hands touched. Eliot cleared his throat, letting his hand fall away. 

“Yes, well…” Quentin let the cape fall from his shoulders, handing it to the tailor standing by. “I suppose I can decide later.”

_ If I make it through the night.  _ Quentin’s words hung unspoken in the air as he redressed in cornflower blue wool and sturdy leggings. Eliot followed him out into the hall, where a group of soldiers congregated. 

“Your Highness!” One of them called, a young lieutenant named Silven who had served in Quentin’s former regiment. “Come have a bit of a spar with us. The mud has finally dried in the outdoor yard!”

Quentin held up his hands, shaking his head. “Oh, I couldn’t, there’s too much to prepare—“

“Come on, Your Highness,” said another recruit named Bayler. “What could be keeping you as the day draws to a close?”

Quentin sent a long look down the hall, where doubtless all manner of small duties awaited him in the safety of his rooms, but then he smiled, shrugging. “Alright then, I suppose there’s time for a quick round.”

The soldiers cheered as they made there way outside. 

Eliot stepped forward. “Your Highness, I really don’t think that’s a good idea, what with it being so close to your coronation—“

“Don’t tempt fate, Lord Waugh.” Quentin didn’t even turn to acknowledge his protest. “There’s no harm in a little amusement, if it will keep the recruits happy.”

Eliot bit his lip, nodding and stepping back. 

Eliot kept close to Quentin’s heels as they followed the rowdy band outside to the training courts. Lord Fogg had been right, Quentin would be king when the frost melted, and outside it was as if spring had suddenly seen fit to arrive. The river outside of the castle ran quick, the banks full from snowmelt. The trees budded with signs of new life. 

By this time tomorrow, it would be a new world. 

Eliot kept his distance, leaning against the partition in front of the empty stands to watch.They were laughing, and it was good to see the prince smile. They had been young men together, bound by service to Fillory. To them, Quentin had been more and less than a prince; he had been a fellow soldier. He’d led them in a successful campaign when raiders from the south had terrorized the peasants living at the border. Now, they played together, sparring with dull practice swords and laughing in the sunshine. 

Quentin bested Silven in an impromptu duel, knocking the young soldier flat on his backside. The group whooped and applauded, Quentin held his sword at the ready again.

“Who’s next?” He taunted playfully. 

“Care for a real fight?”

The soldiers went wild when Margo stepped onto the yard, wearing a tunic and hose that fit close to her legs. Eliot smiled, shaking his head. Margo never failed to make an entrance. She blew Eliot a kiss with a wink before plucking two short practice swords from the rack of training weapons. 

“I heard some ruffians were playing out in the sunshine,” she said, flourishing the blades with the skill of long practice. “I thought I could give you a few pointers.” 

Quentin offered her a courtly fencer’s bow and a boyish grin. “You honor us with your presence, my lady.” 

She and Quentin sparred playfully for a few minutes, entertaining the soldiers immensely. Margo came from a long line of warriors, her mother having been one of King Theodore’s commanding officers before her retirement. Eliot had once thought there wasn’t anything Margo couldn’t do, but the last weeks had proven that false. She had tried, since the banquet and he and Quentin’s ill fated tryst, to bring cheer back to their little group, but to no avail. 

Not even Margo could fix this. 

Quentin surrendered gallantly after Margo bested him two out of three rounds. She ruffled his hair and left the soldiers to their sport, coming to drape herself against the half-wall beside Eliot. 

“I’m surprised you’re not breathing down their necks right now,” she said, allowing him to kiss her hand. 

“There’s no danger here,” he said. “These are his friends.”

Margo hummed. “Perhaps. You know who else is Quentin’s friend?”

“Margo–”

_ "Me.  _ And His Highness isn’t exactly the king of keeping secrets.”

Eliot sighed, crossing his arms. “So he told you what happened. Fine then. Say what you need to say.”

Margo softened, pity in her eyes. 

“I’m not here to preach to you. I only hate to see you like this.”

“Like what? This is my duty. I’m here to watch over him.”

Bayler stepped up to Quentin, bowing and offering the prince one last duel. Quentin accepted the challenge with a smile, lowering himself into a starting position. 

“You’re hurting,” Margo continued. “You both are. It’s as plain as day, even if you won’t admit it.”

One of the others, playing adjudicator, waved a handkerchief to start the match and they began to spar. 

“Time heals all wounds, and makes us wiser,” Eliot said, watching as Quentin landed a swing at Bayler’s side immediately. That was one out of three. “In time he will see that any… inclinations he felt towards me were best left unfulfilled.”

“For whose sake?”

“His.” Eliot swallowed hard. “And the kingdom’s.”

“El,” she laid a hand on his shoulder. “You love him.”

Eliot’s nostrils flared. He kicked the dust under his foot, spraying it all over his boots. 

Bayler took the second round quickly. Quentin was laughing now, readying himself for the final round. Bayler switched out his sword, the blade on the old practice sword he had been using coming loose in the last round. 

“It’s anyone’s game, Bayler!”

Bayler raised his sword. “Oh, I beg to differ, Your Highness.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Eliot said, turning to Margo. “I have not lived a life that would make me a proper match for the king of Fillory. My feelings are the least of the issue–”

“He loves you too.”

Eliot closed his eyes, rubbing his temples. 

“Of all the ridiculous things to say to me–”

He stopped, his right ring finger suddenly burning hot. Eliot whipped his gaze to the courtyard entrance, but finding no encroaching danger he took in the scene before him with fresh eyes. Quentin was laughing, not giving his full effort to the spar. The soldiers were younger and less trained than him, and their duels had been playful. But. there was something different now. Bayler’s swings were harder, more lethal, and the way his sword glinted in the sunlight spoke of a freshly sharpened blade...

Bayler aimed a heavy, overhand swing, and his sword crashed against Quentin’s block. Quentin stumbled back, looking a bit bemused. 

“El, what’s wrong?” Margo too was on alert now, following his sight. 

Eliot shook his head, drawing his sword as he shouted:

“Bayler, stop!”

He was ignored, or perhaps the merry group just couldn’t hear him. Quentin re-established his stance, but Bayler was already charging at him, the good humor gone from his face. Eliot could see from this angle that the blade had an oily sheen, whether it was a spell, or a potion, or something poisonous and putrid– 

“Free Fillory!” Bayler yelled, his sword raised above his head. 

But Eliot was there, he had made it, shoving Quentin back and blocking Bayler’s blow with a great  _ clang _ between their swords. It was a sloppy parry, and Eliot’s arm screamed in protest. 

“What–  _ Eliot– _ ” 

Eliot ignored Quentin, but the moment’s distraction proved deadly when Bayler slid his sword away, opening a gash on Eliot’s upper arm. He cried out, his arm burning and dropping to his side, useless. 

“Back  _ away _ from the prince!” Margo’s harsh command and the singing of her blades turning sharp with a swift spell was some small relief to Eliot as he switched hands, swinging and blocking each of Bayler’s attacks with his right arm now. If there were any more traitors among the group Quentin would not be left defenseless in a melee. Eliot breathed through the spreading pain and focused on the enemy in front of him. The soldier was quick, but Eliot was a better swordsman in every way. He growled, parrying another another attack and lunging forward to jab. Bayler jumped back, kicking up dust. 

Eliot coughed as he inhaled the dirt cloud. His head felt full of wool, his vision was beginning to swim. His fears of poison had been correct. Had the blade touched Quentin’s skin? He needed to— 

Something slammed into him, knocking him to the ground. He fell badly on his own elbow, his side screaming out in pain. 

The dust settled, and Eliot struggled to get to his feet. With one last burst of effort, he charged Bayler, blocking a wild swing and then knocking the sword from his hand. For a moment, Bayler’s righteous anger fell away, betraying his fear. Eliot drew his fist back and knocked Bayler to the ground. In a moment, Margo and the rest of the soldiers jumped on him, keeping him from running away. 

Eliot looked around, his breath coming in harsh gasps. 

“Quentin– Your Highness–”

Eliot found him, running to him and looking for wounds, drawing his hands over his neck and hands and face– any prick from Bayler’s poison sword could prove lethal, there would be no time to waste– 

“Eliot.” Quentin kept saying his name, but it sounded like he was underwater. “Eliot,  _ stop _ , you have to stop, lie down–”

Quentin’s face swam before him. He took Eliot’s face between his hands, but Eliot could barely feel them. His legs buckled, heavy and numb like lead beneath him.

“Q–”

Eliot fell forward. 

“Eliot!”

His knees hit the ground hard, but someone caught him before he fell completely. He was lowered, slowly, his head pillowed on something soft. Strong, warm hands cupped his face as Eliot descended into the silent blackness of oblivion.

“No,  _ no...please…Eliot…” _

~

Eliot heard voices. The sound of boots on packed earth. There was a chorus of questions, cacophonous and urgent– and then silence. It was all a backdrop to the strange dreams he had.

In them, he was carried, brought out of the dust and sun to a soft bed. Hands, soft and yielding, ran over his body and stroked his hair. A hushed voice spoke ancient words over and over again, the timbre familiar but laced with tears. He felt pain, sharp and burning, in his arm, but it faded with time. It slowly disappeared as does a leaf on a strong breeze. 

“Eliot,” the voice spoke again. “Can you hear me?”

He opened his eyes slowly, the dim candlelight an assault. He groaned, squeezing them shut again. A hand stroked along his arm, soothing. 

“It’s alright. I’m here.”

Eliot knew that voice, those hands. He knew this  _ room,  _ come to think of it. He tried to sit up, and pain brought him back to the pillows, groaning...

“Don’t.” The hands were flat against his chest. “Lie still. I’m almost finished.”

He let sleep take him once more, the blackness better than the alternative of burning pain, but it only seemed like a moment before he woke again. 

His eyes were clear now, and the light didn’t hurt him. He was in Quentin’s room, lying on Quentin’s bed. Confused, he sat up, testing himself, and there was no dizziness. A sharp pain shot through his side when he tried to take a deep breath. He was cold, and realized that someone had removed his tunic, leaving him only in his leggings. 

“El.”

Quentin sat next to the bed, elbows resting on his knees. He looked exhausted and drawn, but unharmed. 

“How do you feel?”

“I–” Eliot coughed, his throat raw. Had he been yelling? “I remember Bayler and fighting him but… what happened?”

“Bayler’s sword was tipped in poison,” Quentin said. “You broke a few ribs and he got you in the arm with it– we didn’t notice until it was almost too late.”

Quentin’s voice caught. He stood, avoiding Eliot’s eyes and laying a hand on his shoulder.

“Lie back, there’s still more to do, now that you’re awake–”

Eliot did as he was told, his left arm brushing with something cold and metallic. 

It was only then that he realized that Quentin must have been the one to remove his tunic while he had been unconscious, and with it the five or so knives Eliot kept hidden on his body at all times. They were littered about the bed with their slim sheaths and leather straps, and at Eliot’s feet lay his sword. Practically an armory, and Eliot simply one among the weapons. Worse still, without his tunic—that thin veneer of silk and wool that allowed Eliot to play at gentility—Quentin could see his scars. 

“Q–” He swallowed back the shame that rose in his throat. “You should go, I don’t want– you can’t see me like this.”

“What are you talking about?”

Eliot tried to stand, to find something to cover himself, to cover the dozens of imperfections that marred his body. Long, white scars from the swipe of a blade. Ugly, twisted puncture wounds that had nearly left him dead. Evidence left by the years Eliot spent in hell, finding his skills and then finding the monster in himself– 

Quentin’s hand tightened on his shoulder. The pain brought him back, anchored him. 

“Eliot, stop, you’ll aggravate your wound.”

He did, allowing Quentin to ease him back against the pillows. He closed his eyes. Quentin did something, moved something, and then there was a cool cloth pressed to his forehead. 

“So now you’ve seen,” Eliot said. “The life of violence I led before knowing you.”

There was a dip in the bed as Quentin sat beside him.

“You always look so beautiful– I– in your manner of dress, I mean. I never imagined.”

“Most would prefer the sight of velvet and brocade to the truth of my skills, Q. And what it took for me to gain them.”

Quentin reached over, brushing his fingers over Eliot’s bare chest. “I don’t.” He sighed. “I confess I never dwelled on it, but I wasn’t under the illusion that you were born with a sword in your hand.”

Eliot took a shaky breath, his prince’s hand flattening over his heart. The first touch from him he had been granted in weeks. It was almost less of a shock when suddenly, magic, warm and comforting, flowed through him from Quentin’s hand. The pain in his side diminished, and with a strange detachment his broken ribs healed. He took a deep breath, his lungs expanding without discomfort. 

“Quentin–how–”

“Shh…” Quentin’s other hand came to rest on Eliot’s arm, above the gash in his bicep that was gummy with dried blood. “Let me do this for you.”

The magic flowed once more, and the skin lost its angry red hue, the wound stitching itself back together, finding wholeness once more. Within a minute, it was as if it hadn’t existed. No scar. 

“I was able to draw the poison out of your body while you lay in the courtyard,” Quentin explained. “It was a close thing, nearly at your heart, especially since you had been fighting. But Margo and the others held Bayler down and I tried to work quickly.”

“I had no idea,” Eliot said as Quentin removed his hands from his shoulder, his body now virtually pain free save for the few scrapes and bruises from the fight. “I had no idea that you could do this.”

Quentin shrugged. “Most don’t. When I was studying magic Alice and I discovered that I had a certain… penchant for mending objects. She helped me see that it might work in a medicinal capacity as well.”

Eliot rolled his shoulder. Flexed his fingers. 

“I’m not a healer,” Quentin continued. “I just… make things remember what it was like to be whole.”

Eliot lowered his arm, finding that Quentin was watching him thoughtfully. 

“Q…” 

Quentin pursed his lips, letting his now free hand trace down Eliot’s forearm to lace their fingers together against Eliot’s thigh.

“Hm?”

“There’s not enough magic in the world to make a man like me whole again.”

Quentin’s teeth sunk into his lip as he stared at their joined hands. 

“So stubborn.” He said, shaking his head. “You were nearly dead in my arms an hour ago and yet here you are– still making excuses for why we shouldn’t be together.”

“I thought you understood–”

“I don’t.” Quentin stood, folding his arms and turning away. 

“Q,” Eliot pleaded. “You don’t know the man I was, before you knew me– there are stains on my soul I will never be able to wash clean. Even in my service to you– to the crown. I will always be a killer. A mercenary. No matter how honorably I fashion myself, no matter how much I lo–”

He stopped, choking on the word. It would do no good now.

He stood, finding his tunic and slipping it over his head like armor, blood stains and all. 

“I came here to leave that all behind,” Eliot started again, evening his tone, buckling his belt at his waist. “I came here to show that I could be champion for the King of Fillory. Can you not see that every day, I atone for my sins?”

Quentin wrung his hands, frustrated. “Then  _ why  _ do you still carry them with you? Why do you deny yourself what would bring you happiness?”

“It’s not only about me,” Eliot said. “I’ve spilt so much blood, Q. You will be king– you deserve someone whose hands are clean.”

“You don’t understand.” Quentin remained steadfast, determined. “How can I think you impure when you have protected me at the risk of your very life? You, who’ve stood in the way of assassins and poison and–” 

He stopped, taking Eliot’s face between his hands, making him look at him. “I love you  _ for  _ the lives taken by your sword, not in spite of them.”

Quentin pressed his hands down the back of Eliot’s neck, grasping at his shoulders until Eliot’s tunic was creased in his grip. They were so close, Eliot could feel his warmth, the puff of his breath as he vowed: “I love you because you have killed for me, Eliot Waugh. I would have nothing less. I would  _ give  _ nothing less in return.”

Eliot rested his hands on Quentin’s waist, feeling how quickly his breath came. 

“You sound so sure,” Eliot said, his voice a plea. “How can you be so sure?”

“I know my heart, I know what I feel for you is love. Yes, you hurt me deeply, but—” 

Quentin released him, backing away. Eliot’s hands fell from his waist, leaving him cold. 

“I watched you fall today and I can’t be angry anymore— I can’t.”

Quentin stopped, shaking his head. 

“I won’t say anymore. You know I want you, but I will not beg for someone who does not feel the same. I can only ask for the honest truth of your heart. Eliot, what do you want?”

The question hung in the air, a crossroads laid bare in front of Eliot’s eyes. Down one road, he saw Quentin, his heart beautiful and open. His prince offered tenderness, offered the truth of his love. He dared not look away, even if he could only have him this night. 

Eliot took Quentin’s hand and drew it to his chest, where his heart beat against his ribs. “Can you not feel my answer?”

Quentin’s upper lip twitched. His eyes shone. 

“I wish to hear it from your lips.”

Eliot swallowed, tears pricking at his eyes. He felt it in his bones: surrender. 

“You are my light,” he confessed. “You are—I have killed for you, and would again, because a world without you is one of only darkness and death to me. You are my heart, my– I—”

Eliot couldn’t continue, his next words escaping only as a sob, but Quentin—his prince, his silent love for so long—did not allow his tears to flow unchecked. 

The taste of Quentin’s lips mixed with the salt of tears. Quentin stood on his toes and drew him closer with a hand to the back of his neck, the press of their lips a language that could not be spoken. The way Quentin opened for him was another declaration, the brush of his teeth to Eliot’s bottom lip an ode, his hands– wide and searching– flat against his back, pure poetry. 

It was Quentin who guided them, pressed at him until Eliot fell to the bed, his heart hammering as Quentin climbed over him and straddled his hips, bending forward to kiss him once more. Eliot’s head spun– he touched him, his arms, his chest, his lovely face– 

His body was sore, but it buzzed with a need under his skin. Greater than any battle, Eliot would have this. 

He rolled him over, covering Quentin completely and kissing his lips and then his jaw, the shell of his ear. Quentin laughed against his lips, tossing aside one of the many knives that had littered the bed while he laid unconscious. Eliot frowned, his earlier fears still a squeeze on his heart, and yet– 

His prince grasped his arms, getting his attention. 

“We will not give in to fear.” 

Eliot shook his head. “No. Never again.”

“Kiss me,” Quentin breathed. “Eliot, kiss me–”

“Anything,” Eliot vowed, all his careful resistance crumbling. “I’ll give you anything, my prince,  _ Quentin–” _

Eliot kissed him, and he gasped as Quentin blindly worked at the fastenings of Eliot’s belt. It fell to the ground with a thunk, and Quentin pressed his hands to the bare skin under Eliot’s tunic, encouraging him to lie between his legs.

Eliot moaned as their hips met flush, feeling the evidence of Quentin’s arousal pressing against his thigh. 

“Tell me,” he breathed. “Tell me what you want, and I will make it so—“

“I want…” Quentin’s tenderly petted Eliot’s curls. And then the world turned upside down as Quentin put him on his back again, his hands already on the laces of Eliot’s trousers and shoving Eliiot’s tunic up about his waist. “I want to finish what I started, the night of the banquet.”

Eliot watched in disbelief as Quentin unlaced his trousers, biting his lip, concentrating on the work at hand. He reached a hand inside, and Eliot threw his head back against the pillows as Quentin stroked once where he was almost completely hard.

“Q– my love–”

Quentin’s hand disappeared. Eliot sat up to help Quentin divest him of his trousers, the slide of wool against him a poor substitution for the touch of Quentin’s hands. His love did not make him wait for long, returning his hand to Eliot’s cock to give him long, slow strokes. 

“How long have you dreamt of this?” Quentin asked, brown eyes deep and dark as they traced him covetously. 

“Since the moment I met you,” Eliot said, sitting up and stroking Quentin’s hair back from his face. “I took to my knees and never wished to rise again.”

Quentin frowned. “But what if I wish to give myself to you?”

Eliot shook his head, delirious with pleasure as Quentin squeezed his hand at the head.

“I would do anything you wished.”

“Why? Because I am your prince?”

He stopped moving his hand. Eliot moaned as longing shot through him. 

“No,” he gasped. “Because you are my beloved.”

Eliot allowed Quentin to push him back onto his elbows. He met Quentin’s eyes as he set his shoulders between Eliot’s thighs and positioned his cock under his open mouth– 

“That is all the reason I ask.”

—and took him inside. 

Eliot fell back against the cushions as Quentin sucked the head of his cock. Pleasure burned through him, the antithesis to the pain he felt before, delicious wet heat from the mouth of his prince, the man he  _ loved–  _

He couldn’t control his words. 

“Quentin, oh– please–”

Quentin smiled around the burden in his mouth and then searched out Eliot’s hand by his side, placing it on his head. Tentatively, Eliot threaded his fingers through Quentin’s soft tresses, stroking his scalp and encouraging him. 

Quentin sucked the length of him as if he hungered for it. As if he were starving, and only Eliot’s pleasure could satiate him. If you had told Eliot yesterday,  _ this morning,  _ that he would be granted this, that his prince would take as much pleasure as he gave from this act, that his eyes would flutter shut as he took Eliot as deep as he could, moaning around the stretch of his jaw and the seal of his lips, he would have laughed in disbelief. 

But now he pressed his hand to Quentin’s cheek and felt the proof of himself there, knowing the shape and weight of  _ his cock in Quentin’s mouth _ . As a young man Eliot had given himself freely to all manner of partners, and that portion of his life at least he looked on with little regret, but those couplings were nothing to this. To the wet, eager mouth of his lover, making their bodies as one. 

His prince replaced his mouth with his fist as he panted, catching his breath after his labors. Eliot watched, stunned, as Quentin nuzzled the inside of Eliot’s thigh, his brow furrowed in bliss as if it were silk to which he pressed his cheek and not coarse hair and hard won muscle. He next pressed his nose to the thick thatch of hair at the base of his cock, inhaling deeply. A helpless sound of need escaped Eliot’s lips. 

He had spent far too long chaste, and the fact hadn’t escaped Quentin’s notice. 

“You love this,” he said, eyes dark as he drew the length of Eliot’s wet cock through the circle of his fist. “You’ve wanted, as I have. And yet you denied yourself.”

May the gods forgive him, he had. He had played the hedonist but kept the vows of an ascetic. Quentin had broken open the gate of Eliot’s chivalrous hermitage.

“Never again,” Quentin ordered him, the command sweet as honey to Eliot’s ear. “You’re going to spill in my mouth. I will taste your pleasure this night.” 

Eliot’s lover would have anything he wished. Quentin took him back between his lips, his tongue circling the head of his cock until Eliot came undone. Eliot bared his throat, made new and raw as he came with a hoarse cry. 

After, he dragged Quentin up to him and kissed him, his lips red from his labor, his mouth tasting of him. As his body hummed with the throes of orgasm, he helped divest him of his tunic, tossing it to the side as Quentin helped him out of his own. Eliot moaned as Quentin’s cock, still covered in his trousers, pressed hard against his stomach. Quentin braced a hand on Eliot’s shoulder, chasing the feeling with a few shallow thrusts of his hips. 

Eliot watched Quentin chase his pleasure, stupefied by the little, strained whimpers that fell from his lips. 

“Eliot–”

It wasn’t enough, Eliot could see.

Cradling the back of his neck, Eliot flipped them once more, straddling Quentin’s thighs. His fingers shook as he ran his hands over Quentin’s chest, over his nipples, his soft belly, to where he could get to work on the fastenings of Quentin’s trousers. 

“I would not have my prince be left unsatisfied,” Eliot said, his voice a broken wreck even to his own ears. 

He gasped when Eliot got a hand around his cock, stroking him to full hardness, feeling him grow in his hand. He kept his pace slow, an idea entering his mind. 

Quentin whimpered as Eliot drew his hand away. 

“No– don’t stop–”

“Shh…” Eliot rose up on his knees, positioning himself over Quentin’s hips. “I’m going to take care of you.”

Quentin watched him, lips parted, eyes shining with disbelief. Eliot twisted his hand in a once familiar gesture– it had been so long– and he gasped– suddenly hot and slick and open inside. He shuddered, sensitive, but he wanted. He had protected him, sacrificed for him, and now Eliot would receive his reward. 

He held Quentin’s cock steady at the base, bearing down to lower himself slowly, taking him in inch by inch. The spell made it easy, almost too easy, and Eliot wished to take his time, feel the way Quentin filled him. 

Quentin reached out, stroking his thighs, his hips bucking up involuntarily. 

“Eliot, that feels… you feel so good…”

Eliot rolled his hips, taking the full length of him. Quentin sat up, mouthing at Eliot’s chest, reaching up to be kissed. Eliot gave in to him, tilting Quentin’s head back enough to lick into his mouth as he seated himself fully. Quentin’s hands ran down his sides, cupped his ass to press himself forward. 

Quentin’s first moan as he slid out and back inside might as well have been a holy choir of the faithful. 

Desperate to hear it again, he took Quentin’s hands in his own, pushing him to lie flat on his back. He laced their fingers together and pressed them to the bed above Quentin’s head, using the grip as leverage to ride back on Quentin’s cock, drawing another moan from his lips. 

Eliot smiled against Quentin’s hair. Victory. 

It wouldn’t be long, and Eliot sped the movements of his hips, chasing every sensation as Quentin lost control beneath him. He gripped Eliot’s hands like a lifeline, giving of himself so freely and without hesitation. Every pang of pleasure showed on his face as he panted.

“Eliot–  _ gods–  _ I’m going to–”

Eliot released one of his hands to grip Quentin’s jaw and turn his face towards him, kissing him on his open mouth as his pleasure reached a fever pitch. Eliot ground his hips down once more and Quentin came deep inside of him, his tongue licking the moans from his mouth. 

Their breaths came ragged and hot between them as they came down. Eliot stilled, letting his heart slow its beating in his chest and his grip on Quentin’s hand going slack. Quentin brought one between them, kissing him tenderly on the tips of his fingers. His gaze was soft, but his eyes shone in the dim light. 

Eliot shuddered as Quentin turned them on their sides, slowly drawing himself out of Eliot’s body. 

“And to think,” Quentin said. “We have been denying ourselves this for three years.”

Eliot laughed softly, still a little raw, and drew Quentin in to kiss him again. It was a slow, sliding thing. Quentin ran his fingers through the wiry hair on Eliot’s chest. Eliot kneaded over the strong muscles of Quentin’s shoulders, his back. Memorizing him. 

They drifted apart for necessity, but never far, and Eliot’s heart ached. Even as Quentin smiled and stumbled his way through a cleaning charm, his hands unused to the tut, leaving them dry and comfortable to lie together, the veil of uncertainty clouded the happiness in Eliot’s heart. 

He did not speak of it as Quentin settled in his arms. Eliot wrapped him in his embrace, allowing him to rest his head on his shoulder. Quentin’s breath was warm against his chest. 

“Tell me something,” he said quietly.

Eliot carded his fingers through his hair. “What should I say?”

Quentin shrugged. “Anything. Something true.”

So Eliot told him a story of a young boy who grew in the shadow of a great puzzle. How travelers came from far and wide to try their hand at creating the beauty of all life with nothing more than colorful tiles set in a mosaic. He told him of the more ridiculous patterns that some made (A dog with three heads and six tails) along with the ones that had taken his breath away (colors that wove between each other with seemingly no end). 

“I’m good at puzzles,” Quentin said once he had finished, a smile at his lips. 

Eliot laughed. “I know you are.”

“I should like to try my hand at it.”

Eliot’s heart ached to think of his old home, of the memories that lived there. His mother, tall and kind who sang with a voice as clear as a bell. His father, whose hatred had nearly driven Eliot to ruin. The travelers whose magic had set him on the path that had led him here. 

He swallowed. His past couldn’t hurt him now, not with the prince in his arms. For however long he had him. 

“I would love to take you there. You only have to ask.”

Quentin hummed, and Eliot wondered if he was feeling the pangs of uncertainty as keenly as he. 

“Your ring is warm again,” Quentin murmured, brushing his fingers over his knuckles. 

Eliot took his hand, lacing their fingers together over his heart, letting Quentin feel it. “It has been for the last month.”

He felt Quentin’s brow furrow. 

“Why? When I brought it up last time you seemed… hesitant to talk about it.”

“You would have worried.” Eliot stroked his back. The ring was only warm now, not hot as it had been when Bayler had raised a poisoned sword to kill. 

“Why?”

Eliot sighed. “I received it from the man who trained me. He wasn’t a good man. But he showed me magic and trained me when no one else would. Introduced me to the harsh side of Fillory.” 

“Sounds charming.”

Eliot laughed softly. “Extremely so. He gave me the ring somewhat in jest, a mean joke between us.”

“What happened to him?”

“He died, rather gruesomely. Not by my hand, but that isn’t to say I wouldn’t have, if I had been given the chance. I’m thankful, nonetheless. His life and his death brought me here.” Eliot stroked his thumb over the knob of Quentin’s shoulder. “To you.”

Quentin lifted his face, and Eliot kissed him. Softly, without hurry or design. How many times now had he been permitted to kiss Quentin? He should have been counting. 

“Eliot,” Quentin said, once their lips parted, “Why does your ring grow warm?”

Eliot exhaled, shuddering only slightly. “It’s a charm. It’s been warm since the start of your trial and burns hot when you are in imminent peril.”

“Why only me?”

Eliot smiled. It had been so easy,  _ so easy,  _ to fall. 

“Because you are the only one I love.”

Quentin shivered in his arms, and Eliot drew the covers closer over both of them. Quentin shifted, rolling atop Eliot and straddling his hips, dipping down to kiss him again. Desire stirred in Eliot. Perhaps, one final time– 

Just then, a bell sounded from the high tower. They broke apart, listening. Quentin stroked the curls back from Eliot’s forehead. The bell sounded twelve times, and then fell silent. 

“Midnight,” Quentin said, his expression serious and vulnerable. 

Eliot’s ring went cold on his finger. 

Quentin’s trial was over. 

  
  


~

Eliot adjusted his tunic cream colored tunic, his belt just slightly off-center. One of his curls had refused to fall in line that morning and now it tickled his forehead, unruly and defiant. He had a reputation to keep, and one didn’t attend a coronation looking unkempt. 

Prince Quentin Coldwater was to become king today. 

Margo slapped the wildflower patterned brocade that sheathed his thigh, resplendent in her own fawn colored gown. “Stop fidgeting. You’d think it was you being crowned today, with all the fuss you’re making.”

“I’m just–” Eliot looked back at the door for what was probably the hundredth time. Nothing yet. “I have a part in the ceremony as well.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot that your small part to play is equal to running  _ an entire sovereign nation–” _

“Can’t you just be nice, for once?”

Margo harrumphed some sort of haughty answer, but Eliot had already ceased to listen. The room was filled with nobles in their finest ceremonial garb, and with an early spring heat wave upon them, they were starting to ripen. Eliot was grateful for the sheer sleeves of his tunic allowing the scant breeze from the open windows to kiss his skin. But there was more than that to be thankful for. Quentin’s trial was over, and it was time for him to be named High King of Fillory. All the worry and precautions and sacrifice of the last month were over. They had won. 

Eliot ran his teeth over his bottom lip, bouncing his leg up and down. 

They had won, but Eliot felt little relief. 

“All rise in the name of the Crown Prince of Fillory, Quentin Coldwater!”

The herald’s voice rang clear through the throne room, and the doors swung open. The crowd rose to their feet, and Eliot took his place at the foot of the dais, where Alice stood waiting in her pristine white robes in front of the empty throne of the High King. 

And then, Quentin was there. 

The sun that shone through the windows caught every star on his lush mantle, but more than that it was as if Quentin himself glowed from within. He walked slowly up the aisle, his head held high as the crowds bowed before him. He wore the bronze crown still, a clunky accessory to hiskingly ensemble, but it would shortly be gone. 

Quentin’s eyes sought Eliot out at once. He smiled at him, his eyes tracing slowly up the length of Eliot’s frame as if to savor him in his own coronation finery. Eliot’s heart skipped in his chest. His prince.  _ His.  _ That his heart thought so recklessly now thrilled him, no matter how undetermined their fates. 

There would be no withdrawing their declarations now. 

Eliot had held Quentin through the night, counting the minutes until the sunrise. He surrendered to sleep in the hour before dawn and when he woke, the bed was cold. Quentin was gone. At first he had panicked, by force of habit. He only settled when he realized his ring now longer felt warm against his skin. Quentin had simply been taken to prepare for the coronation. 

“Lord Waugh?”

Eliot blinked back to the present. Alice and Quentin both looked to him expectantly. Eliot flushed. 

“Oh– yes–”

He reached for the chest that sat on the dais, a plain brown box without decoration. Opening it, he held it toward Quentin. Slowly, Quentin reached for the bronze crown, setting it in the chest. Eliot closed the lid and handed it to the attendant that stood near. It would be a lifetime before it was opened again. 

“And now,” Alice declared, “The prince’s witness will present the High King’s crown on behalf of the people of Fillory.”

Eliot opened the second chest that was offered to him, a much more elaborate vessel decorated with gold leaf and gems. He lifted a shining gold crown from its silken pillow. It was warm to the touch, no doubt from sitting in the sun. 

Eliot lowered himself to one knee, presenting the crown to Alice. 

“The Bronze Prince has proven himself,” Eliot recited. “He has borne the trials and survived. By the strength of his body, the sharpness of his wit, and the fair judgement he bestows, we the people so find him worthy.”

Alice took the crown, and Eliot rose to his feet. He watched, heart fluttering, as Alice placed the crown on Quentin’s bowed head. When it was done Quentin opened his eyes, his hands folded piously in front of his chest, and Eliot watched as his eyes flared briefly gold.

And so it happened, that Eliot’s prince became king. 

What happened after reminded Eliot much of the day after the first assassin made an attempt on Quentin’s life. Quentin was swept away– after all, there were nobles that wanted to bow to him, documents that required his royal signature, and many matters of ceremony to attend to, none of which required Eliot’s use as a bodyguard or witness. 

He stayed with Margo, trying to join in with the many pockets of revelry that sprung up for the afternoon. Unofficial gatherings before the official feast that was scheduled for the evening. Margo led toasts and shoved a goblet of wine in his hand, and he went along with it, mostly. 

An hour went by, and then two, and still Quentin was nowhere to be found. Margo left, citing that she needed to change and make herself beautiful for the celebrations. Eliot should follow to do the same, but he didn’t have the heart for mere decoration at the moment. He sat by the hearth in Quentin’s chambers—long since as familiar as his own—nursing his drink and sweating in the new spring warmth, lost in his thoughts. 

In truth, he didn’t know what to think. 

A solution to their predicament eluded him, slipping through his grasp every time he thought he knew. He could not go back to working as Quentin’s guard alone– at that he had already tried and failed. He would protect him forever, but he could no longer act only in that capacity. No, there would be no denying the feelings that had drawn them together, and Eliot shuddered to think that there might come a time when Quentin would be expected to take a wife, to produce an heir that would in time come to take up the mantle of bronze prince—

Where would Eliot be then? Would he stay, merely a witness to Quentin as he found the beauty of life within his kingdom? 

He would. Eliot knew that he would, but it would be only half a life. Half a life and still better than none.

“My lord?”

Eliot turned. Joss stood by the door. 

“What is it?”

“Prince– I mean, that is to say, the  _ king _ wishes to see you in the throne room.”

The king.

Eliot swallowed, setting his goblet aside. He straightened his tunic, wishing perhaps that he  _ had  _ gone and changed. 

“Lead the way.”

The throne room was nearly empty when he stepped inside, leaving Joss to wait in the corridor. The neatly arranged chairs were slightly askew, the nobles making a mess in their haste to congratulate and pay respects to the newly crowned king. There were no servants present to clean, as he had expected. 

Only Quentin was there, sitting upon his throne. 

Eliot’s heart nearly stopped. He looked every inch a monarch, with the high king’s crown resting on his brow. He had foregone his unwieldy mantle but still wore his tunic, waves crashing across his chest to match the tumult of Eliot’s heart. Eliot approached him slowly, bowing at the waist. 

“Your Majes–”

“Are you avoiding me?”

Eliot looked up, straightening. Quentin watched him, his gaze intense, but not unkind.

“Your Majesty, of course not, I am in your service–”

“Eliot,” Quentin said softly. “Please. It’s Quentin.”

“Quentin,” Eliot amended, the name of his king ever dear on his lips. “I only– I knew there was much to be done, and I didn’t wish to crowd you.”

Quentin parted his lips and sighed. “Yes, it’s been a busy afternoon. Still...”

Eliot gestured out with a hand. “I’m here now, if there was something you needed.”

“I need  _ you _ ,” Quentin said, as if it was that simple. “Body, soul, and mind. Always. I thought I made that clear last night.”

Eliot exhaled, flushed. He looked around, but there was no one else in the room. 

“You did,” he agreed. “And I– I don’t want you to think that I was anything less than sincere in my affection. I meant every word.”

Quentin leaned to the side, resting an elbow on the arm of his throne. 

“But?”

Eliot wet his lips, his heart racing. He wouldn’t drive Quentin away again, but there were certain realities of their positions that had been weighing on his heart since the coronation that morning. 

“You have my heart, Q.”

Quentin smiled, a glorious vision. 

“You must know…it’s enough, to be at your side.” Eliot clasped his hands behind his back. “To spend our days together, to serve, in whatever form your need may take. To protect you and know that you are safe by my hand. Whatever—” Eliot clenched his jaw, his own words a blow to his heart. “—whatever duty to your kingdom the future might bring, I will love you regardless. It will be enough.”

Quentin didn’t answer straight away. Eliot stood still and quiet, waiting. For the first time in his life, he felt ill-equipped. He had no kingdom to promise, no riches to offer. All he could give Quentin was the contents of his heart, and pray that he would be allowed to serve him in some capacity, any capacity, even if it was to love him from afar. 

Quentin rose, stepping down from the dais and standing before Eliot, their feet now at the same level. Eliot’s breath hitched as his prince—no, his  _ king _ —took his hand, bringing his knuckles to his lips. His eyes were closed, as if in bliss. As if it brought him peace to know the mere touch of their skin. 

Quentin lowered his hand, lacing their fingers together between them. He met Eliot’s gaze. 

“That is not enough for me.”

Feeling clenched at Eliot’s heart. It was heavy, like magic when the moon was full, but this was no mere enchantment. 

“That is the only offer I have to give,” Eliot said, voice breaking. “How would you have me, then?”

Quentin laid a hand on his face. Eliot leaned into it, hungry for his touch, despite his fear, despite the thudding of his heart. 

“My offer is simple as well. I would have you forever, in every way.” Quentin said. “Stand side by side with you and rule this kingdom as partners. But.” 

Quentin stopped, considering his own words carefully. Eliot’s careful, wonderful Quentin. 

“This is not the order of a king,” He continued. “But a plea from a man in love.”

With another squeeze of Eliot’s hand, Quentin sank down to one knee. Eliot’s heart nearly stopped. 

“Q,” he breathed. 

“Eliot Waugh of the North Woods. You have been my protector, my companion, and my friend.” He cleared his throat, laughing nervously. His crown caught the light and shimmered on the stone wall. “I’m sorry– there aren’t– there aren’t words to express how deeply I feel for you.  _ Love  _ you. Your smile, and your scowl. How you move with a sword in your hand. The way you dress. You are everything beautiful to me. Everything deadly, and everything safe.”

Eliot laughed, tears building at his eyes. 

“I want to be with you forever, to have us bonded by law and magic for all to see, but it’s not only my wish that’s important. What’s in your heart, Eliot? Would you allow me to be yours, for this life and the next?”

_ This life, and the next.  _ Before him Eliot saw his life. Years of violence and suffering now behind him, and the home he had found here. He Had pledged his life to a prince and given him his heart, who knelt before him now, entreating him:

“Eliot, will you marry me?”

Unable to withstand it any longer, Eliot lifted him to his feet, drawing him up to his tip-toes and circling Quentin’s face with his hands. With a sob he kissed the gasp from his lips and the tremor from Quentin’s fingers. This wonderful, brave man, who laid his heart out for Eliot to take. 

He would protect it with his life. Eliot whispered his answer against the lips of his beloved. 

“Yes.  _ Yes.” _

Quentin surged up to kiss him again, smiling against his lips. Happiness bubbled in Eliot’s chest like a fountain overflowing. His love had asked him to marry him– and he had said  _ yes.  _

Eliot wrapped his arms around him and they embraced. Quentin laughed as he lifted him off his feet and spun him around: deliriously, wickedly happy. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Chapter five will be the last full chapter, followed by a short but sweet epilogue. 
> 
> Love you all! I don't know what I would do without all of you in this time <3


	5. A Consort for the King

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! Get ready for maximum medieval fantasy indulgent content coming your way. I hope you have loved this fic as much as I've enjoyed writing it, which is a lot! Also, I just want to give one more big, BIG, shout out to mtothedestiel for going above and beyond the duties of a beta and really making this fic sparkle. 
> 
> This is the final full chapter of My Valiant Beloved, a very short and sweet epilogue will be posted later tonight.

Quentin announced their engagement that evening at the coronation feast, his heart full enough to burst. Their celebrations were made even more merry by the news and every resident of the castle, be they servant or courtier, launched themselves into preparations for the wedding. Fillorians married quickly but with much ceremony—none more so than their king— leaving them only a short time and with much to prepare. And there was a certain sacred...practice that had to be upheld, though it would mean a great sacrifice for Quentin and his betrothed.

“A week?”

Quentin nodded, unable to hide his smile at Eliot’s horror. 

“Just a week’s separation, and then we will be married on the first day of the new month.”

Eliot exhaled hard. He took Quentin by the waist, pulling him close. 

“Now that I have you… to be without you—“

Quentin rested his head against his chest. “I know. But once we are wed you shall never leave my side again. The gods need their traditions, and we must let them have them.”

Eliot made a reluctant noise of assent. 

“And think about it.” Quentin pulled back to look at him, drawing a hand up to cup his neck. “Think of our wedding night, after being parted for so long…”

Eliot kissed him then, slightly less than chaste. Quentin hummed his pleasure into the all too brief embrace, brushing his tongue against his lover’s full bottom lip before Eliot reluctantly pulled away.

“I have kept you safe,” he breathed, slipping his hands under Quentin’s tunic, a possessive edge to his voice that sent a delicious shiver down his spine. “Never doubt that I am there, even when you can’t see me, protecting you.”

Quentin rested his brow against Eliot’s collarbone, committing the shelter of his tall lovely frame to his memory.

“Remember how I love you,” Quentin murmured. “And that in seven short days you will no longer be my guard, but my prince.”

Eliot held him safe in his arms. “I could sooner grow wings than stop protecting you.”

After another long kiss, they parted. Eliot was taken to the other end of the castle to stay with Margo for the week, whispering protective spells under his breath that would hold on Quentin’s quarters until they were together again. 

Politics dominated the next seven days.. Now that the cosmic process of the bronze crown was resolved and the monarchy was secure, it was the mundane issues of domestic and foreign policy that became matters of the utmost importance. He spent each day cooped up in the library with his advisors or in his grand counsel chambers, listening to his vassals debate and plead his favor on everything from border protection to food shortages due to fluctuations in the Wellspring. When he wasn’t pressing his seal into the seemingly endless documents and decrees required to run a kingdom he was being prepared for the rituals of his marriage, a topic he would have rather  _ not  _ discussed with men that were his father’s age or older. 

“Please take me away from this place,” he said when he emerged from the library on the third day of his and Eliot’s separation, Alice on his heels. “If I have to hear from the Master of Protocol once more how important it is to consummate my marriage within the first hour after the ceremony I think I shall scream.”

“It’s very important to seal the bonding magic, Q.” Alice said, completely solemn. “In fact, we should probably consult with the sages regarding the position of the first royal coupling. We wouldn’t want the circumstances to be compromised in a fit of passion.” 

Quentin turned, mouth agape, only to find Alice’s lips curing in a helpless smile. 

“Would you like to enquire if the king is permitted to submit to his husband?” She asked, widening her eyes innocently. “Or shall I?” 

“Oh  _ ha _ ha,” Quentin grumbled, his cheeks warming as they continued down the hall. “I don’t recall this being so humorous when it was you and I who were to be wed.”

Alice magnanimously ignored Quentin’s mention of their doomed engagement, still amused by her little joke.

“Oh, let them wring their hands,” she said. “They’re from a different time. Your father’s marriage was arranged, and the king before him. They’re used to nervous monarchs afraid of their wedding night… performance. They can’t imagine a royal marriage that might involve true love.”

Quentin tucked his hair behind his ears with a hum, letting the tension of the long morning slide off his shoulders. 

“Unless I’m mistaken,” Alice suddenly sounded worried. “And you and Eliot haven’t yet—”

Quentin waved a hand to soothe her fears. “Oh believe me, we have. It makes it all the harder to be apart.”

“It’s only been three days.”

“Three days after a month with him constantly by my side, and three years of steady companionship before that.”

“I can see how that might be distressing,” Alice said, expression thoughtful. “Though I think Margo and I function as well separated as we do a unit. Not that it’s relevant to your situation,” she added, as though realizing she was being less than tactful. “How about a distraction? We might go for a ride now that the flowers are in bloom.”

Quentin smiled. He wouldn’t change a thing about Alice, though it made them far better friends than lovers.

“That sounds great, actually, and I…” Quentin’s smile fell, but only slightly. “I’d been meaning to pay a visit to my father’s grave, before the wedding.”

Alice nodded, leading him towards the door that led to the stables. “I would be glad to accompany you.”

Spring had truly arrived in Fillory, the magic thick in the air caused the trees to flower and the wildflowers to bloom into a lush carpet beneath them. They spurred their horses to run fast, letting the wind pull through their hair as they rode to the sacred wood where all the kings and queens of Fillory’s past were laid to rest. 

Alice stayed with the horses as Quentin entered the sunlit glade and approached the great tree that guarded the grave of his father, dropping to one knee before the white slab of quartz that marked his burial site. After a quick prayer to thank the forest for its service, and the stone for its protection he closed his eyes, trying to recall his father’s face. The trial that lay behind him had made him forget that in his heart he still grieved for his father. He missed his wisdom and kindness that made his reign a peaceful one. 

_ King Theodore the Steadfast _ , read the grave marker, above the antlers and stars of the Coldwater crest. Quentin pressed his hand to the cool stone.

“I only hope I can be like you,” he whispered. 

Quietly, with his head bowed, he remembered one of the last conversations he had ever had with his father. Quentin had sat by his bedside, counting each wheezing breath from King Theodore’s lungs as he struggled to cling to life. He had already sent away the healers. Their work was tedious and could do little more to keep him healthy, and now the old king wished to spend his final days in peace. 

Quentin sat quietly as his father told him again of the trial that awaited him. His heart was heavy in his chest. Not only would he lose his father soon, but he would be sentenced to a month of danger that might cut his own life short. 

“There will be those that will tempt you to delusion,” his father said, propped up on several pillows. “To be suspicious of any and everyone, but I will not give you such advice.”

Nervously, Quentin interrupted. 

“But how am I to know who I can trust—

“Don’t be foolish,” Theodore said, his scolding ever gentle. “A wise prince relies on his friends in his time of trial. It’s hardly prudent to doubt their love now, to look around and see an enemy in every face. A king must have people around him once the trial is over, never forget that.”

Quentin nodded. “I understand.”

The king smiled, laying a hand over Quentin’s where it rested on the bed. 

“It’s alright to be afraid, my son,” he said. “I would think you a fool if you weren’t. It might be arrogant, but I think I have left you well-protected. As much as I could.”

“You have, father.”

His father coughed hard, the fluid in his chest rattling. Quentin helped him take some water.

The king settled back against the pillows. “Speaking of Eliot...”

Quentin pursed his lips. This was an old argument by now. “Father, I don’t think—“

“I think you will find this to be just as much of a trial for him as it is for you.”

Quentin nodded. “Of course, I’m sure he will feel the challenges of his duty very keenly.”

His father laughed softly, his voice hoarse and tired. 

“It is not only duty, that binds him to you. Watching him for these years in your service has shown as much to me.”

Something had twisted in Quentin’s heart then. Eliot prepared just as much as he did for the trial, likely even more so. He’d already given Quentin his vow to never leave him unprotected for even a moment, not knowing how close those words were to the tenderness Quentin dreamed of hearing from his friend’s lips. Still, Quentin was no fool and he knew Eliot’s eyes lingered over him, even though he looked away whenever Quentin caught his gaze– 

His father continued. “I know this isn’t something in my expertise. Your mother never loved me—”

“Father—“

“—but I can recognize unconditional love, because I have known it for my son.”

Tears beaded at Quentin’s eyes. He squeezed his father’s hand, resting his head on his arm. His free hand came up to pet Quentin’s hair, like he did when Quentin was a boy. 

“You will know love in this life, Quentin. And because of that you will be a good king.”

Quentin’s next exhale was a sob, broken. “How can I do this without you?”

“You will because you were born to it, not just by blood, but by the nature of your soul.” The king smiled. “Now, come here so I may give you my blessing.”

Quentin bowed his head so that his father could kiss his brow, a seal on whatever was to come for him. 

They passed a few moments in comfortable silence, and then there was a soft knock at the door. Eliot poked his head through. He had likely been waiting outside this whole time, hand on his sword ready to protect the little time remaining between father and son. 

“Your Majesty, forgive the disturbance, but the council is asking for Prince Quentin.”

Quentin swallowed hard, standing slowly. He smoothed the blankets covering his father’s frail body. 

“I’ll be along shortly.”

Eliot nodded, and glanced at Quentin, offering him the ghost of a smile. He left with a bow, but the warmth of his affection—however small—gave Quentin the strength he needed to rise from his father’s side. 

“Your Lord Waugh is an honorable man. Dutiful,” Theodore said, making himself comfortable as he closed his eyes. “You will have to be the one to make him realize.”

A protest sat on Quentin’s tongue, but he kept it to himself. Time would tell. 

His father had rested then, and woken the next day. But soon his condition would turn, and by week's end he was gone. 

The packed earth below him was hard against his knees, but Quentin remained for a few extra moments, finding his royal connection to the Wellspring and siphoning off a drop to summon a swath of spring lilies to encircle his father’s tree. He swallowed hard, wondering if his father could see that he had been right about the true depth of Eliot’s devotion. He prayed that he would be present in spirit with them through the wedding to come.

“I will know love because you taught me how,” Quentin said, placing his palm against smooth stone, now surrounded by all the colors of spring. “Thank you, for that.”

Quentin rose then, and began to pick his way among the royal graves back to Alice and the horses. At once a flicker of remembrance passed through him, and he paused, turning back to see another tree near King Theodore’s, this one guarding a pair of graves. It was far more ancient than his father’s, the trunk too thick for three men to wrap their arms around. 

Quentin closed his eyes and breathed another prayer of thanks, this one to that ancient oak that watched over the grave of King Rupert the Bold and his prince consort. They were the first of their like to be buried in this sacred grove, but they wouldn’t be the last. One day Quentin too would find his place here, and Eliot beside him, to rest among the past kings of Fillory in peace for all time. 

Silently, he made his way back to the mouth of the glade. His heart still ached, but less so now. Soon he would see Eliot again, at the altar where they would be married. His old life would be over, and together they would start anew. 

  
  


~

  
  


Despite aching for Quentin, Eliot found himself very occupied as they were thrust into preparations for the wedding. Fittings, decorations, rituals— and Eliot was still the unspoken head of Quentin’s guard. He heard every report regarding his king’s security, though for the time being he could no longer hear them from his accustomed place at Quentin’s right hand. Between his changing duties and the many counselors assigned to prepare him for his coming nuptials (all very concerned over the issue of consummation; Eliot could only do so much to assure them that he would indeed perform this most “solemn duty for the good of all Fillory” with a straight face) the time flew until it was the eve before his wedding. 

The sun had long completed its journey below the horizon. With no tasks remaining Eliot thought to retire for the night, but then Margo came to his room, dressed in a loose, white linen gown, her feet bare and her hair unbound around her shoulders. 

“Come with me.”

“Margo, what—“

“Shhh…”

She refused to elaborate, a secret smile on her lips as she lead him by the hand out of her family’s palace apartments. It was late, and the light thrown from the torch sconces flickered wildly against the walls. The subterfuge of it all should have raised his hackles, a sliver of his darker nature wondering if a knife was about to be plunged into his back, but this was Margo, and the trial was over. 

She led him down a familiar staircase, the heat and steam of the baths dampening his bared skin and clinging to his clothes. They entered the main chamber, and Eliot was rendered speechless. 

Before him stood half a dozen ladies of all ages that Eliot recognized from court. They were dressed like Margo, in all white linen with their hair loose or in long braids down their backs, their faces bare and unadorned. Behind them sat a large oblong basin made of light pine and lined thickly with oilcloth, it’s contents milky white with pale pink rose petals floating on the top. 

“As the betrothed of the king on the eve of your wedding, your spirit is at the mercy of the White Lady tonight,” said Cecilia, a middle-aged courtier Eliot recognized. “She demands this ritual of us to aid you on your journey into married life.”

A young lady beside her placed a long length of cloth into her hands. It was white, and glistened like a pearl even in the dim light. 

“Traditionally, this ceremony is performed by the ladies of the court, Lord Waugh, for the King’s bride,” she continued, offering the garment to him. “We would give you the same blessings, but if you would prefer a different approach, I’m sure arrangements could be made…”

Eliot smiled. He took a step forward and took the garment from her hands, letting the filmy material flow through his trembling fingers. It reminded him of a veil, sheer enough to see through, and embroidered with pale flowers. In contrast, the evergreen wool he wore now felt coarse and plain against his skin, and he was all too aware of the leather sheaths holding blades against his ribs and under his sleeves. 

For one night, Eliot could put away his sword. 

“I’d be honored. Will you help me with this?”

It was a decadent ceremony, reminding Eliot of the pampering rituals he had occasionally indulged in with Margo, made ethereal and sacred. He was given a pair of white drawstring trousers in the same magical material as the veil to wear and a white washed partition behind which to disrobe. With his ring still cool about his finger, Eliot removed his clothes, and left behind his knives, rubbing at his skin where the leather had left cruel indentations. Truly, he would leave himself at the White Lady’s mercy. Perhaps he would be blessed with some of his beloved’s faith. He stepped from behind the screen, bare-chested and weaponless but for the magic that always thrummed beneath his skin. His hands and feet were anointed with sweet smelling oil and the ladies draped the veil over his shoulders. 

Margo stood on her toes once they announced him ready, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. She pulled away, her fingertips a feather-touch over his face. 

He allowed her to guide him into the bath, the enchanted water surprisingly cool against his skin, as if he had been burning and was now soothed. It had been prepared to accommodate his gangly frame, and he was able to stretch out his legs and take on a brief feeling of weightlessness. Using wooden bowls, the ladies poured the water over his head, and he felt tension release from his muscles. 

The milk of the bath clung to the veil however, revealing the scars that lined his skin once more. Eliot saw how the women’s eyes lingered. Anguish curling in his gut, he tried to sit up, and cover himself, but Cecilia stilled him. She guided him instead to rest his head against the lip of the tub, his limbs floating in the cool water.

“Do you know of the last king who had a prince consort?” she asked, her voice low and warm in the humid air. 

Eliot shook his head. He knew it was  _ permitted _ , of course, but out of pride most kings sought blood heirs, which meant a queen. Quentin—as he had made vehemently clear—was a rare exception. 

“It was the line before the Coldwaters,” Cecelia told him, the other ladies—too young, of course, to remember such a time, or even the stories of it outside of troubadour songs—listened keenly. “The King had a wife— taken out of duty—who passed when they were young. The king had always been close with his general, the captain of his army, and after mourning for her he chose this man to be his spouse.”

Beside Cecilia, Margo knelt and poured scented oil over Eliot’s curls, pulling her fingers carefully through every lock. 

“How did that turn out for them?”

Cecilia smiled. “The kingdom was stronger for their union, for the king’s new lover had won many battles and knew how to protect what he held most dear. They lived long lives, and died only days apart. They’re buried together in the Kings’ Wood.” 

“Oh.” If Eliot had imagined a prince consort before his time, he would have guessed they were a wealthy noble’s son, or the second prince of a much needed foreign ally. But a warrior, a man who knew the blood and death of duty, who carried a sword in the name of his love— 

“Knowing that our king now will have such a valiant companion, one who has borne trial and would protect him through any hardship…” 

Cecilia sighed, and touched Eliot’s cheek, as a mother would. “Your scars are a gift to the people of Fillory.”

Eliot relaxed, her calm, quiet words and ministrations a balm to old wounds and his worried heart. He had been missing Quentin for a week, aching for him, and now he made himself ready to be bound to him, for all time. After, he would pick up his sword once more, and his king would know the safety of his love until they were both old and gray.

The ladies washed him and covered his bare skin in oil. The enchanted water made his muscles heavy, and they helped him from the bath. He knelt then and they circled him, laid their hands on him, and prayed to the White Lady that he be made ready for this new trial. Eliot would have laughed had he not felt so thoroughly, completely cared for. 

They helped him dry with a simple spell and gave him fresh clothes to sleep in, leading him back to his bed once more. Drenched in magic and love, Eliot fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow and dreamed only of spring days to come. 

The morning dawned cool and clear, with the sound of birdsong drifting through the window of Margo’s quarters. Eliot opened the shutters, watching as the sun rose quickly over the horizon, as if time itself had sped in anticipation for his wedding day. Eliot thought of the trial, of how time had slowed, how singular his vision had been: to protect Quentin and to deny himself. 

It seemed almost silly now. 

Servants came to help him dress for the ceremony in a simple, white linen tunic that hung to his knees, the neckline low and open and embroidered with plain blue thread. Blue for Quentin, his king. He wore leggings of the same material underneath. His feet were kept bare. 

Even royalty embraced the ostentatious plainness of Fillorian weddings. Eliot had been to a few as a youth in the North woods, but he’d never dared to dream of the creamy linen of a bridegroom against his own skin.

He and Quentin would both enter the ceremony blindfolded, led as equals to the place of binding. The servants secured a length of violet silk over his eyes and his heart thudded as he was carefully led from the room, an attendant on each arm to show him the way. 

He heard the latch of a door, and felt the kiss of warm air against his face. His feet met dewey grass, his senses alight with the smell of earth in the springtime. There was the sound of a crowd rising to their feet, and then the attendants halted him, their gentle touch disappearing–replaced with familiar hands at his face. They untied the blindfold, and then Eliot saw sunlight. 

It was bright, but as his eyes adjusted he saw Quentin, his king, his crown upon his head but otherwise dressed in much the same way as he. His blindfold had already been removed and he smiled, his eyes squinting at the corners as they did only when he was truly happy. Eliot’s heart swelled. There was a crowd with them in the castle gardens, every noble that could make the journey in seven days and commoners filling in every gap, but he hardly spared them a glance.

A week away had felt like a year. It took all his courtly manners now to not kiss Quentin before the ceremony had even commenced. As it was, they weren’t even permitted to speak until prompted. 

So he returned Quentin’s smile, and waited for Alice’s instructions. She stood before them in her white magician’s robes with an undyed silk scarf in her hands. 

“Quentin Coldwater, King of Fillory, why do you stand before your people once more?” she asked. 

Quentin held his head high, his gaze never leaving Eliot’s. “I come to marry the man who stands beside me.”

Alice nodded, and at her gesture they knelt, facing each other eye to eye. She offered Quentin a blessed blade, and he used it to draw blood to the surface of Eliot’s offered hand, making just a prick against his palm before handing Eliot the knife to do the same to him. Then their right hands were clasped and Alice used the silk scarf to bind them, palm to palm. The blood flowed freely down their palms, staining the white cloth. Eliot breathed through the temporary pain with the ease of long practice, knowing the sharp sting would be worth another scar, this one to mark him not as a killer, but a man in love.

Alice stood tall between as her hands twisted and fell, a series of tuts as old as Fillory itself. The bonding magic was powerful, heady like a warm evening in summertime as it settled over them. Eliot’s eyes fell closed, his body thrumming with magic. His heart raced as Alice’s incantation grew louder, his head heavy with the feeling of Quentin’s hand in his– his blood,  _ their  _ blood– and– 

Something deep inside of him hummed, a part of him coming to life he had never known he possessed. 

There was a new heartbeat in his ears alongside his own. Another breath that flowed through his lungs. 

He opened his eyes, blinking, disbelieving. 

“Quentin–” He gasped. “I can feel, I can feel  _ you,  _ your heart–”

“I know.” Quentin’s face was wet with tears. “I feel you as well. It’s as though we’re one.”

Eliot laughed with elation as Alice completed her spell and placed a silver chalice in his free hand, filled with wine so dark it might have been black. It was more than a mere symbol of a shared cup, the wine steeped in herbs served as the final component of the binding spell. 

“Drink,” she commanded, and they did. Eliot first, and then he passed the cup over their bound hands to tilt it to Quentin’s lips, careful not to spill a drop as he drank. 

Their hands were unbound, and Eliot missed it already, some of the magic leaving with the cloth, though Quentin’s heartbeat was still strong with his. Alice held the bloodied cloth aloft for all who had gathered to see, and a hush fell over the crowd.

“A husband I have made of this man, a partner who will serve Fillory,” Alice said, “But only a king can make him a prince.”

An attendant knelt before them with a smooth box made of light wood. Quentin’s hands still shook from the ceremony, his palm tacky with drying blood as he revealed its contents. 

It was a lovely thing, hair-thin wisps of silver woven in a design so intricate so as to resemble wildflowers. It shone in the morning sun– a crown befitting royalty. Too lovely, Eliot thought with a final pang, for a violent thing like him. 

“Bow your head,” Quentin said, his voice hushed like a whisper. 

He glanced up at Quentin, at his king. 

His  _ husband.  _

He would have to be worthy. 

Eliot obeyed. Quentin’s hands were warm as he placed the delicate circlet upon his head. 

“A prince I have made.” Quentin recited the words so quietly, as if they were only meant for him. “A prince who will serve Fillory by my side. A companion for all of my days.” 

Quentin rose without instruction, but Eliot waited for the final words. 

“Rise, Prince Consort,” Alice said, concluding the ceremony. “Rise and greet your king.”

Quentin helped him to his feet, their hands clasped, and tears in his eyes he kissed him square on the lips. The cheers that broke from the audience were a mere shadow of the elation in Eliot’s heart. 

They were married.

A king and his consort, from this day on.

  
  


~

There would be a feast. There would be dancing and toasting and singing and all manner of revelry. It would begin as soon as possible, and carry on into the night. 

Eliot and Quentin were not expected to be in attendance until the sun set, at least. 

A fact that Eliot was grateful for he backed his husband into his bedroom, claiming his mouth in a deep and passionate kiss as Quentin dismissed any and all servants with a distracted wave of his hand. The door was still open. 

Eliot didn’t care. Let them see.

“My prince–” Quentin said rapturously when they parted with slick, open mouths. His hands stroked over the thin material of Eliot’s tunic, fitting well to the cage of his ribs as Eliot’s breath came fast. “My prince  _ consort–” _

Eliot shivered, drawing him closer and snapping his fingers with finality. The door slammed shut. 

“Can you feel it still?” Quentin panted as Eliot relieved him of his shirt. “The magic between us?”

Eliot ducked his head to lick his neck, to mouth at his nipple and draw a moan from his lips. 

“I feel it. I feel  _ you.  _ As if you are under my skin.”

Eliot went to the drawstrings of Quentin’s trousers, hurriedly undoing them. He wanted to kneel before his king while the magic of their bond still felt so fresh, to take him into his mouth while he still wore his new crown upon his head– 

Quentin stilled his hands. 

“Eliot.”

He paused, practically down on one knee already. “Do you not want me to– ?”

Quentin laughed, lacing their fingers together and pressing it to his heart. 

“Of course I do, always, and to do the same for you. But now…”

Quentin swallowed, his eyes darting around the room. He was nervous. Eliot was patient for him, waiting for him to gather courage to say his next words: 

“You have kept my life in your safekeeping for so long. I’ve given you my heart, and—and I would give you my body as well.”

Quentin stepped closer, and drew Eliot back to his feet, his eyebrows knit together in concentration. His fingers brushed along the hem of Eliot’s tunic, onto the skin of his belly, dipping under the waistband of his trousers. His lips parted and he sighed as he wrapped a hand around Eliot’s cock, already almost hard since the ceremony. 

“Q–” he let his head drop to Quentin’s shoulder. Quentin stroked his open mouth over the hinge of Eliot’s jaw.

“I want you, Eliot,” he said, pressing his thumb deliciously under the head of Eliot’s cock “This first hour in our marriage bed, let us lie together fully. Let me receive you.”

Eliot cheeks warmed, the traditional words hopelessly erotic in his lover’s mouth. He kissed his shoulder, then his throat, then those beloved lips that curled like the White Lady’s bow and spoke such poetry.

“I can give that to you.” He lifted Quentin’s chin to look in his eyes, looking for any trace of uncertainty, but he found only desire

Quentin squeezed him once more, and Eliot’s knees nearly buckled. He pressed their brows together as Quentin murmured, color high on his cheeks, “I’m yours.”

Eliot gasped, taking his mouth once more in a searing kiss. 

It was only the work of a moment to get Quentin down to his bare skin. He undressed him, and then stood back to remove his own clothes until they stood naked together. Their crowns were next, laid carefully on the armoire side by side. 

The sunlight poured in through the open windows. There would be nothing between them tonight as they consummated their marriage, not even a veil of darkness.

“Have you done this before?” Eliot asked, when they knelt before one another on top of velvet bedclothes. He cupped the firm flesh of Quentin’s upper thigh in one hand, the other cupped gently under his husband’s chin. 

Quentin nodded. “Once– with another soldier, on the eve of battle. He was...kind, but it was nothing like– we didn’t love each other as we do.”

Eliot took both of his hands in his and kissed them. He would never tire of kissing Quentin, wherever and whenever he was permitted. 

“I trust you,” Quentin continued. “I want to give myself to you.”

“You already have,” Eliot replied, ancient marriage magic flowing through his veins. “But I’ll take this gift at well, as greedy for you as I am.” 

Quentin laughed, his eyes creasing at the corners in that way Eliot so loved, but his cock was full and thick against his thigh. His desire was genuine, and there was no desire of Quentin’s that Eliot would refuse. He was going to take his time. Years of withheld tenderness thrummed under his skin, and Eliot was left with the all encompassing need to make this good for his husband. It wouldn’t hurt, Eliot vowed in his heart. Quentin would only feel pleasure and ecstasy by his hand. 

He would make sure of it. 

Eliot swallowed, kissing him once more, chaste, on the lips. 

“Lie down on your back.”

Quentin obeyed him, lying down atop the coverlet and opening his knees to receive Eliot between them, as eager and desirous as the filthiest of Eliot’s lustful dreams. Eliot took his rightful place between his husband’s legs and kissed him for an eternity– biting his soft lips and fitting his hand at the curve of his ribs. He kissed him until they panted together with need, and only then did Eliot part with him. 

“I want to make you ready with my mouth,” Eliot said, running a palm over Quentin’s thigh to feel the skin twitch under his hand. “There’s magic I can do— to be quicker— but. This way is better. Have you ever—”

“Never,” Quentin breathed, his eyes wide but dark at Eliot’s proposal. Eliot grinned, trembling with his own desire as he kissed down Quentin’s firm chest. 

“But you’ve thought of it,” Eliot guessed, knowing he was right when Quentin’s breath hitched, and he pressed his face into his pillow, cheeks red. “I’ve thought of it too. Dreamed, countless nights, of being allowed to serve you in this way.” 

Quentin moaned his response, pushing Eliot’s shoulders and encouraging him to dip down between his thighs. Eliot drank in his pleading little whines like cool water, his own pleasure tight and urgent behind his navel. 

His need could wait. He would be rewarded for his patience soon enough.

Eliot dragged Quentin to him by the hips, pressing his knees back. The tut to clean him was only the work of a moment, and then Eliot licked Quentin’s cock, just to hear him moan. Quentin hissed and gathered his own knees in his hands, baring himself further to Eliot’s greedy gaze. 

Eliot smiled and began his work. 

Quentin thrashed and moaned wildly as Eliot worked his tongue inside of him, making the furled muscle where he would have him wet and sloppy. Quentin held his legs obediently but sounded as if he were coming apart as Eliot licked him and pressed a knuckle to the area just behind his balls. 

Eliot labored until his jaw was sore. It was holy work, as good as a duel won, or a blade polished to perfection. This was no soldier’s tent on the eve of battle. This was his marriage bed, and Quentin was forever his. Eliot’s king would know pleasure.

Quentin calmed after a few minutes, his body loose and lax against the bed and his moans turned low and wanting. Only then did Eliot stop, pressing kisses to Quentin’s inner thighs and encouraging him to let go of his legs so that Eliot could crawl between them and kiss him. Quentin parted his lips eagerly for him, then his hand snaked between them, seeking out the hard length of Eliot’s cock with a fervent grip. 

“Not yet,” Eliot hissed as Quentin circled him with his fist. “Not until I’m inside of you.”

“Show me.”

There was oil waiting for them—probably chosen in consultation with the sages and Quentin’s entire grand counsel, but that was far from their minds now. It was slippery and warm against Eliot’s fingers as he coated his lover where he’d already made him ready and open with his tongue. Then Quentin laid on his side, panting as Eliot breached him slowly with one and then two fingers until he shook for more. 

“Your hands—  _ oh—“  _

Eliot laughed against his hair, his lover’s pleasure a sound akin to the sweet chime of a bell, to the music of the gods themselves. 

“What does it feel like?” He whispered. Quentin was so slick and hot against his fingers. The promise of having him nearly threatened to undo him.

Quentin moaned as Eliot stroked, just a gentle brush against the bundle of nerves inside of him. 

“Like—I can feel you everywhere— your love—“ He twitched under Eliot’s hands as another wave of pleasure took him. “I’m ready now— please. I need you, I  _ need  _ you, Eliot—“

Eliot pet his hair and hushed him, his heart full to bursting. 

“You shall have me. However you please.”

Quentin laid panting as Eliot stretched out fully behind him, coating himself in oil and pressing close until he could slide his cock into the cleft of Quentin’s ass. Breathing through the bliss of even this simple closeness, he spoke seriously in his ear. 

“You’ll tell me if it hurts? If you want me to stop?”

“Yes, yes—“

Eliot cupped Quentin’s jaw with the palm of his hand. “Do you promise, Q?”

Quentin looked back at him, nodding. “I do.”

Trusting his lover, Eliot took himself in hand and pressed the head of his cock to Quentin’s entrance. Quentin whimpered as Eliot eased himself inside, a wet, tight heat around.

_ Slow,  _ he told himself, his brow pressed against his husband’s temple; his grip near bruising where he clung to Quentin’s thigh with slick fingers.  _ Slow.  _

Quentin was no help, moaning and pushing his ass back onto Eliot’s cock quicker that he could think, rolling his hips in a shallow ride. Eliot moaned but stilled him with a hand to his hip. 

“Trust me,” he said in Quentin’s ear as he moaned his protest. “Trust me to give you what you need.”

As if Eliot had whispered the words of a spell, Quentinrelaxed in his arms. Pliant and waiting to receive him in full. 

Eliot sighed as he sank into him in earnest, pressing a hand to his belly so that they met flush. Another thrust– Quentin’s breath hitched and he arched back into his body. Another, and Quentin melted in his arms. Gods, he was everything good and lovely; his strong sturdy body pressed into every one of Eliot’s sharp angles, the taste of his skin was honey to Eliot’s tongue.

“That’s it, my king—“

Quentin’s sigh was low and satisfied as Eliot built a slow rhythm. Nothing with purpose just yet, just letting them both feel. Quentin reached over his shoulder and weaved his fingers into the hair at the back of Eliot’s skull, tugging him down for a sloppy, off center kiss.

“Eliot,” Quentin gasped, his eyes hooded with need. With a shaking grip he drew Eliot’s hand up to cup his throat.  _ “ _ Hold me here _.” _

Eliot moaned as Quentin tipped his head back against his shoulder, allowing the full press of Eliot’s palm against that tender, blessed skin. He felt the life beating in Quentin’s pulse, the vibration of every moan that passed his lips as if they were his own. He watched, awestruck, as his lover’s lips curled into a trembling smile.

Even now, Quentin put his very life in Eliot’s hands and trusted him to keep him safe. 

With a slow roll of his hips Eliot thrust back inside of him, pulling Quentin’s body flush against his. He held him still at his hip to better build a rhythm and pressed his thigh between Quentin’s own, keeping him open to him. With every thrust of his hips Quentin cried out with abandon, singing his pleasure for the whole castle to hear. 

“Eliot— my Eliot,“ he said as Eliot set a faster pace. “You give— give me  _ everything _ —“

Eliot pressed a thumb to his pulse, the barest promise of pressure at his throat sending shudders of ecstasy through his whole body. “Is it what you’ve needed?”

“All that I need and more,” Quentin sobbed. 

Eliot quickened his pace, feeling the exertion in his body. He reached down, stroking Quentin’s cock with his free hand. 

“Let everyone know that you are mine,” Eliot choked, stripping Quentin’s cock and stroking inside of him. Quentin’s cries of passion filled the air with sound, heedless of the open windows. Eliot could only pray that the courtly revelers on the grounds below them could hear how well he served his king.

This was no mere coupling– magic thrummed in his hands, strengthening him. This was a claim, a seal upon the magic that had been conducted at the ceremony. A  _ bond.  _

Quentin came a few moments later, gasping Eliot’s name over and over as he went taut in his hands, spurting white all over the sheets. Eliot held him through it, fucking him until Quentin shivered, and pushed his hand from his spent cock. Eliot pulled out of him then, sitting up on one elbow and kissing him until Quentin returned to sense. 

“I still want you,” Quentin whispered against Eliot’s mouth once his body was lax and his eyes fluttered open. 

“You have me,” Eliot returned, stroking his cock along the crease of Quentin’s ass. He would be happy to come this way, with his prince warm and sated against him—

“No.” Quentin stopped him with a hand on his hip. “I want you— I want you to spend inside of me.”

Something wild roared in Eliot’s chest, and he pressed his brow to the side of Quentin’s neck with a helpless groan.

“Have me,” Quentin said, stroking his fingers through Eliot’s mussed and sweaty curls. He could hear the wicked smile shape his voice as he ordered him: “Take your pleasure from me, my prince.”

With a growl Eliot tipped Quentin onto his belly, stroking his hands down Quentin’s back and arms and encouraging him to grip two of the many wooden posts that made up the bed frame. Quentin did, laying his cheek against the pillow, his eyes falling closed as he waited. Eliot applied more oil, until their skin glistened with it. 

“Gods, Eliot,  _ now—” _

Eliot did not leave him wanting. 

His first thrust back inside of Quentin drew a gasp from his mouth, hurt and sensitive. Eliot drew back. 

“No,” Quentin gasped into the pillow. “I want— I want to feel you, all around me— don’t stop—“

He shouted beautifully when Eliot sank back inside of him. 

Bracing his knees on the bed and his hands on the small of Quentin’s back, Eliot obeyed his prince, and took his pleasure. Quentin clenched down tight around him and sobbed as Eliot rolled his hips, taking in the length of him every time, like he was made for this, made for Eliot—

Powerless against the siren call of his beloved’s skin Eliot draped himself over Quentin’s back, pressing his brow to the sweet sweat slicked back of Quentin’s neck as he fucked him. He wrapped and arm around him to press against his heart and threaded the fingers of his other hand in his hair gathering the silky locks in his fist to bare his neck and shoulders for Eliot’s kisses. Quentin whimpered into the pillow, and Eliot put his lips everywhere he could reach as they rocked together. 

Every cell of Eliot’s body hummed with love and devotion for the man he held beneath him, every animal instinct cried out for him to have him and never let go, never allow another to touch him. He would keep him safe, as long as he was allowed. 

It would be his life’s work. 

Overcome with pleasure and the serenity of knowing that Quentin was only his—that neither of them would be alone again, or have to suffer the meaningless touch of another— Eliot came. Quentin moaned, low and satisfied, as Eliot emptied himself inside of him. Eliot’s heart pounded, his muscles warm and slack and almost purring at the notion that he had laid claim to the man he loved— had made him his in their marriage bed for their own pleasure and for the blessing of all their kingdom. 

He pulled out slowly, stroking along Quentin’s hole just to see him shiver, his mouth open against the pillow. He was a mess. A beautiful mess. 

All his. 

He rolled Quentin over gently, temporarily ignoring the seed and sweat to kiss him. Quentin relaxed against the pillows, so thoroughly pleasured and used that he only opened his mouth to receive Eliot’s tongue with a hum. 

“My prince,” Quentin whispered against his lips when they parted. 

Eliot pulled back, stroking his thumb over his cheek, staring into his eyes. 

“My king.”

Quentin was boneless, so sated against the pillows that he barely noticed as Eliot completed the spell to clean them up, but he still received Eliot back into his arms with a covetous grip. 

They laid together in peaceful silence, face to face, their combined heartbeat slowing as the sun climbed higher in the sky. 

“Soon they will come looking for us,” Quentin said, a half-smile quirking at his lips. “To make sure that we have done our duty for the kingdom.”

“You can tell them that you bedded your bride well,” Eliot teased back, stroking a hand down his waist to pull him closer.

Quentin smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Eliot’s chest tightened just to look at him with such happiness written across his features. 

“And that’s why we’ll be late to the banquet?” Quentin asked, coy. 

Eliot couldn’t help rolling him onto his back, laughing all the way, and kissing him.

“That is why we will arrive late to everything, my love,” Eliot said, his own smile pulling at his cheeks. 

Their laughter died away, and Quentin pulled him to him once more for a slower kiss. They parted only when the need for breath prevailed. 

“How lucky I am,” Quentin said. “To begin my reign with the man I love by my side.”

In a few moments they would be compelled to rise and dress in the formal clothes that had been specifically made for the many feasts and parties that awaited them. They would don velvet and silk and not least their crowns and be heralded as Fillory’s new monarchs, the king and his consort, Quentin and Eliot. 

But for now, Eliot enjoyed the joy that danced in his heart, the magic at his fingertips, and the man whose smile would forever be most precious to him. 

“We are both lucky men, Q.” He raised his hand to his lips, kissing his knuckles. 

They kissed once more, knowing that beyond their doors, a new life awaited them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I have loved and appreciated every single comment, and can't wait to hear what you think! And look out for the epilogue to be posted later tonight.


	6. The Beginning of the Story

_Three years later..._

“Should be just right here, if my memory serves…”

Eliot’s hand was cool in his, the early spring air brisk around them as he led Quentin to a small clearing in the woods. They wore light cloaks, and good sturdy boots. Plain, but still obviously royal here in the rural wood where Eliot knew his boyhood. A single pair of guards waited some yards back at the fork in the path they had taken, but Quentin wasn’t afraid. Eliot was with him, his sword at his waist and the magic at his fingertips always ready to protect his husband. 

Before them, the trees thinned and gave way to a square patch of sand outlined with grey stones. 

“It’s not what I pictured,” Quentin said as they approached the empty bed, stepping carefully around the many piles of tiles that lined it. 

“It looks like no one has been here in a long time,” Eliot agreed, brushing a tile with one of his boots. “But then, under your rule the Wellspring flourishes. A key to greater magic isn’t all that alluring a prize. Not to Fillorians, at least.”

Quentin bent down, picking up a tile. 

“Perhaps we could build something here,” Eliot continued, his hand at Quentin’s back to steady him. “A little cottage, for when we need an escape from the castle. I could have a garden, perhaps, and you could try the puzzle.“

The tile in Quentin’s hand was old, covered in dust. Eliot was right: It was unlikely that many had attempted to uncover the mosaic’s secrets in recent times. Quentin rubbed his thumb over it, revealing a muted shade of rose. 

It had been three years to the day that Quentin and Eliot had married. Their anniversary celebrations included a tour of Fillory, so that all citizens might see their king and his consort. It was exhausting work, a far colder spring than the one of their nuptials, but Eliot had stolen Quentin away for a day to show him the place where he had grown up. The tour had been bittersweet, but Quentin had watched Eliot summon flowers to his mother’s plain grave, and then they had come here, where the flutter of magic in the air seemed to ward off all bad memories.

Eliot took his free hand, drawing it up to his lips as Quentin continued to examine the tile. 

“Hm?” Quentin realized Eliot had spoken and he hadn’t heard.

“I said you could try the puzzle, if you like,” Eliot repeated. “I can’t say I ever felt the urge, even though I was a boy here.”

Quentin stepped closer to another stack of tiles, catching his foot over the low wall that separated the mosaic bed from the grass. A stack of tiles fell to the ground, making the lightest of clinks against each other. 

_If you want to live your life, live it here._

“What was that?”

It was a voice, soft as a whisper, familiar as the man beside him. It was as if it had come from inside of him, like a memory. 

But how was that possible? Quentin had never been here before, nor Eliot since he’d become a man. 

“My love?” Eliot asked, squeezing his hand. “Are you alright?”

Quentin blinked, the strange feeling leaving him as quickly as it came. 

“Yes, sorry.” He laced their fingers together, stepping over a stack of tiles and leading Eliot away from the mosaic bed. “What did you say?”

Eliot kissed Quentin’s temple, his smile teasing now that Quentin’s musings required him to repeat himself for a third time.

“I asked if you wished to attempt the puzzle.”

Quentin looked back at the many colored tiles, stacked with precision by the last person to make an earnest attempt. For reasons he didn’t understand, the sight of the colors made his heart ache, tears pricking at his eyes. He squinted, and there– he could see them, just shadows, mere outlines: two men sat at the mosaic, looking at each other, one slight and the other tall, leaning in for a kiss... 

“No,” Quentin said suddenly. He blinked, and the vision was gone. Instead of being left uneasy, he felt warm. Reassured. He looked up at Eliot. “No, I don’t.”

Eliot hummed, letting Quentin take his arm as he led them away from the enchanted place. 

“Letting someone else have their chance instead?”

“Yes,” Quentin said, letting his head fall to rest against Eliot’s shoulder. “I have a feeling there will be others someday who need its magic far more than us.”

Quentin Coldwater, King of Fillory, had everything he needed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much again for reading! All the love to all of you right now <3


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